More than a Trick of the Light
by define-serenity
Summary: [SUPERHERO!AU] Sebastian and Blaine have been best friends for years, even though they both want to be more. But secrets keep them apart. How does Sebastian tell Blaine that at night, he races the streets as The Flash? ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**characters/pairings:** Sebastian/Blaine, Dottie, Sam, Mike, Quinn, Santana, OCs

**author's** **notes:** superhero!AU because i love my superheroes as hard as i love my scifi! dedicated to my wonderful **Lauren** for prompting me. title taken from Charlene Kaye's _I Dreamed An Ocean_. special thanks to **Nikki** for brainstorming and beta-reading!

i put more research into this than you'll get me to admit, and i might've overdone it a _tiny_ bit, but i loved writing this crazy amounts! i drew inspiration from several superhero franchises, but you don't have to know them to understand the story : )

* * *

**MORE THAN A TRICK OF THE LIGHT;;**

* * *

It had rained all throughout the day, leaving the city drained of color, blacks and grays overshadowing the otherwise vibrant Central City, now aided by dusk slowly setting in, and it briefly crosses his mind that if he slowed down he'd stick out like a sore thumb.

He never spends a lot of time standing still though, not even in his civvies, and when he's running, _really_ _running_, the human eye can barely detect him. Most of the time it's like he was never there, even though he often caught a, "Thanks, Flash!" after reuniting an old lady with her cat, making sure some high school kid with a Gameboy made it across the street in one piece, even from the street vendor who never complained that half his magazines flew off the rack when he picked up a newspaper, leaving behind some coins for payment.

There's only one type of crowd who he allows to see him, glaring red and standing tall, his face obscured by his hood, behind them before they have the time to blink–the criminal contingent of Central City. They laughed when he first took to the streets, a guy in a hood doesn't strike fear in street-hardened criminals, but once they saw what he could do, snatch a purse back without his movement registering, dodge bullets, move through solid objects if he wanted, they thought twice about crossing him.

So the people of Central City knew he was around, that he watched over them where the police force proved spread too thin, always moving, always running, even on days like these when the air remained charged with electricity, the leftover trace of stormy weather carefully outlining where his own fears started and where they ended. He prefers the indoors on nights like these, that's why he'd taken a quick tour of the city before heading home again–moving at the speed of light did have its advantages.

Besides, if anyone got in trouble they could still count on the almighty Night Owl to save them, or Nightbird, whatever the papers had dubbed him. He'd been called the Speedster and the Red Stripe before some young up-and-comer had coined The Flash, and since then it had become his superhero name. He was The Flash whenever he donned the red suit, Sebastian Smythe every other minute of his life.

And right now Sebastian Smythe needed to calm his nerves and prep for movie night with his best friend.

He's back home half an hour after he left, and he'd seen the entirety of the city. He'd stopped two robberies, helped a little girl find her way back home, and successfully shut down a group who'd been organizing illegal dog fights all over the city for a few weeks now–no doubt he'd be reading about it in the papers tomorrow.

Struggling out of his polyester costume a cold chill runs up his spine, one this weather elicits more often than not since his accident. He traces his fingers down his chest, an unconscious tic he developed over the past two years to check for chemical burns that have long since healed–they shouldn't have, any normal person would have suffered them their entire lives, but he was lucky. In a way.

He takes a quick shower, watching the clock inch closer and closer to 8pm, but he doesn't expect Blaine to show up anytime soon. He should be used to it by now, considering all the things Blaine devotes his time to, but Blaine's absence has made his own solitude increasingly harder to bear. Sometimes he feels like Blaine's his one remaining tie to any kind of normal existence, so when that starts slipping away too he's left forlorn and empty, moving faster than the rest of the world.

He holds out ten minutes past 8 until he's too hungry, having already finished the leftover Chinese in the fridge–he orders two large pizzas, one and a half for him, the final half for Blaine should he be hungry, but Blaine never eats much this late.

Fifty minutes and one pizza later he finally hears Blaine stumbling up the steps to the loft–he's at the door in a flash and slides it open, hearing Blaine curse under his breath on the floor below; he wonders what could be the cause of Blaine's dismay.

By the time he's settled back on the couch Blaine has reached the top floor, closing the heavy tin-clad door behind him with little to no effort. Blaine seems tired, his clothes somewhat disheveled and he's slumping his shoulders.

"If it isn't my elusive best friend."

Blaine drops his bag to the floor and makes his way into the kitchen. "You started without me?"

"You're an hour late."

"I know." Blaine sighs, rifling through the fridge for a beer. "I was working on the–", he makes his way towards the couch and shrugs, exhaustion in his every move, "–flux capacitor."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Flux capacitor?" He enunciates every word clearly, amused that Blaine has given up on making sense altogether–he gets like that when he's tired. "Don't insult my intelligence, Anderson. I realize that your fancy engineering degree entitles you to a certain amount of new vocabulary, but don't drag my pop culture into this."

Blaine laughs, and plops down on the couch.

"Besides, if you'd uncovered the secret to time travel you wouldn't be consistently late to everything."

"I'm sorry." Blaine relaxes deep into the couch and takes off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, a hand resting over his eyes. "This project has been kicking my ass."

He reaches a hand out, the back of his fingers brushing against Blaine's temple. "You need some aspirin?"

"No, I took some." Blaine's hand drops to his lap, but his eyes remain closed. "Just–turn off the lights?"

He flips the switch on the lamp next to the couch, the loft now bathed in the soft moonlight coming in through the tall windows, but that won't hurt Blaine's eyes. If he can believe the stories Blaine's mother told him Blaine has been photophobic since he was a baby–his tinted glasses make his condition manageable, but when he's tired the slightest variation in the light causes headaches, or even migraines.

"We don't have to watch a movie."

"No, it's okay." Blaine pulls his legs into the couch and scoots closer to him. "I need a distraction."

"I can think of a few things we can do you won't need your eyes for."

Blaine chuckles, something warm and wholesome at the back of his throat. "Keep it in your pants, Smythe," he says, drawing in a deep breath before his head lands on his shoulder.

"What's that smell?"

"Hmm?" Blaine stirs, accompanied by another whiff of the faint scent he picked up seconds ago. He's not used to Blaine smelling like anything but himself–he doesn't wear any cologne, much less any kind of hair gel, Blaine's pure and simple, far too busy to bother with anything but the basics.

"You smell like raspberries."

Blaine raises a hand to his hair, but thinks the better of it halfway. "New shampoo," he mutters, before falling silent again, cuddling closer against him.

His shoulders relax, reassured that Blaine won't disappear on him for at least a little while, that his best friend is here as a tether to some semblance of normality that not even he can run from. He hoists his feet up on the coffee table and tries to move as little as possible while they watch the movie, both of them commenting on the quality of the special effects.

Twenty minutes later, Blaine is fast asleep.

He pulls away carefully and lies Blaine down on the couch, making sure he's warm and comfortable. Staring down at his best friend, the boy who probably knows him better than anyone, he's met with the cold realization that Blaine doesn't know his biggest secrets, the dark parts of his past that have shaped him into the man he is now, the superhero the city makes him out to be. He tells himself it's to protect Blaine, but he's really protecting himself from the danger of losing Blaine altogether. Because what if Blaine doesn't like what he sees?

He suits up for the second time that day, figuring he might as well go out and put out some fires before catching a few hours of sleep. He'll check in on Blaine a few times, but he doubts Blaine will even notice him gone.

.

He hasn't always lived life in the fast lane. There was a time he was the tardy one, symptomatically late to school, work, meet-ups with friends… He's not sure why it was like that, he slept in or lost track of time, his mind wandering to equations and formulas and before he knew it he was disappointing everyone around him; his mother, his stepfather, Blaine.

He tried, he really did, he set alarm clocks for the smallest things, programmed alerts into his phone and computer, because he wanted to succeed in life, he wanted a college degree that could get him places, he wanted to be the friend everyone needed him to be, the son everyone wanted him to be, but even in college it was a struggle to keep up.

The first few years of college his and Blaine's relationship worked the other way around, he couldn't be trusted to show up anywhere on time, while Blaine was the one complaining about his absence, putting away cold meals, joking around when he stumbled into his apartment half an hour late.

After his accident everyone figured he got a wake up call, that his near-death experience had put things in perspective for him, taught him his priorities and made him realize he had responsibilities he couldn't ignore.

Of course, that was only part of the truth–getting struck by lightning had been a wake up call but not in the way everyone assumed: after a few disorienting days in the hospital he got released into a world that seemed to turn in slow-motion, people spoke more clearly or slurred, no one seemed in a hurry and he actually got to things on time, ahead of time even.

It didn't take him long to put two and two together.

The world hadn't slowed down at all.

He was moving faster. _Much_ faster.

For the first time in his life he was aware of the time that went by, he attended family dinners without needing to explain why he was late, he met up with friends without losing track of time, he handed in essays before a deadline, stopped having to pull all-nighters to get schoolwork done–he was impressing his teachers, friends and family and he'd catch them staring at him and thinking: _what happened to this guy?_

He didn't have the answer, as much as he knew about biology and chemistry this was beyond the laws of physics, and he didn't care much for the why or the how. He wanted to know what he could do. He studied faster, processed information faster, he even healed faster–the burns left behind by the chemicals he spilled all healed, and after meticulously researching the process he came to a simple conclusion: his _entire body_ was moving faster, every cell, every molecule, his metabolism burned through food faster, he picked up sound before anyone else if he focused, his reflexes proved keener.

He had total and complete control over every single muscle in his body.

.

He positions the cup of coffee as close to Blaine's nose as he can manage without spilling anything, and it takes a surprising few seconds for Blaine to jolt awake, sniff the air and stretch out long on the couch. "My hero," Blaine hums, and sits up, gratefully folding his hands around the steaming cup.

"You have class in an hour." He wanders back into the kitchen where he's making his usual breakfast of champions: two big omelets to get started, and he'll need to pick up something on his way to class as well if he wants to make it through without starving. "Figured you could use the head start."

"I didn't hear you go out."

A sudden panic stirs at the pit of his stomach.

Blaine was out like a light before the movie was finished, so how did he know he'd gone out? He usually tries much harder to keep his real life separated from the secret one he lives as The Flash–had he become too careless? But when he turns around he sees Blaine point at the newspaper on the kitchen counter. He releases a breath, even though it'd only taken him 3.2 seconds to go out and buy it, but at least Blaine isn't questioning his nighttime extra curriculars.

"I can be really quiet when I need to be." He shakes the omelets onto plates and walks over to Blaine. "And you were pretty out of it."

"Uhm–" Blaine eyes the food in front of him. "I'm not hungry."

"I know." He grins. "These are for me."

Blaine's eyes narrow on him, inconspicuously skipping over the empty pizza box on the counter, the contents of which he'd finished eating about an hour ago.

"Blaine Anderson, you will not judge my freakishly humongous appetite."

Blaine raises his hands in surrender and disappears into the newspaper, while he starts replenishing his power reserves. "Looks like The Flash was pretty busy last night." Blaine leafs through the paper. "No Nightbird though."

"See? Even superheroes take days off from time to time."

Blaine smiles. "Speaking of time off, we're still going to that new nightclub, right?"

"Getting drunk, grinding on the dance floor, partying until 3am?" He raises a hand to Blaine's forehead. "Who are you and what have you done to Blaine Anderson?"

Blaine bats at his hand. "How did that lightning strike not kill you?"

"Just lucky, I guess."

.

Sebastian Smythe did not spend all this time fighting crime. The easy access to his suit made it so that he could slip in and out of his crime-fighting attire whenever, but most of the time he did what any other college kid did: go to class, do homework, and work a job to get a head start on his student loans. His major in organic chemistry and his minor in criminology landed him a paid internship in Central City's forensic science department, not too far from the CCPD headquarters where his stepdad worked as the Chief of Police.

He hadn't always dreamt of a career in criminal justice; when he was five he wanted to be a professional baseball player, by age seven an astronaut, and by age twelve he thought he'd become a farmer like his dad.

Until that fateful night in the dead of winter, when three heavy knocks resounded through the house, reverberating up the walls and down the floorboards up to the first floor bedrooms. He'll never forget it, how cold the floor felt through his socks as he descended the stairs behind his mother, how his mother had clutched his arm seeking protection–they'd opened the door to the sight of two police officers, their shadows cast dark and high into the hallway as they invited them in.

The officers sat them down on the living room couch before telling them what happened. But what they said would remain carved into his memory for as long as he lived.

His dad got robbed on his way home, dragged out of his car, and shot to death.

His entire world became unhinged, marked by a loss so deep and brutal it would never leave him.

He and his mom were forced to move to a small apartment on the Lower East Side when the bank foreclosed on the farm, his mom worked two jobs to pay the bills and was hardly at home anymore, he started at a new school where no one accepted him, and he got into more fights than he cared to admit.

But he had a brain, he was clever, he mastered science and math and had a knack for smooth-talking his way out of things.

And he became determined to find the men that killed his father. They'd never been caught, even though there was enough physical evidence the two men disappeared, as if they were never there at all. With his skillset pursuing forensic science made sense, and when his mom remarried a cop that drive strengthened into all-out obsession.

.

"Hey, handsome," Blaine's voice calls behind him, and the moment he turns his jaw drops to the floor. Blaine's dressed in a fitted purple button-down, his curls untamed as usual, dark-tinted glasses, and a 1.21 gigawatts smile that could power the entire club.

He's seen Blaine in a lot less than this, but he can't help but breathe a, "You look amazing," before closing the distance between them to a few inches.

Blaine thumbs at his collar, even though it doesn't need fixing, and pretends to be unaffected by the compliment. "Buy me a drink," he says, his lips barely containing a smile.

They make their way to a corner table, soon joined by Sam, Dottie, Tina and Mike.

Blaine, Sam and Dottie ran the university's online newspaper together; Blaine oversaw the whole thing, Dottie programmed the website and could write code in her sleep, while Sam took the pictures that accompanied the articles. Mike and Tina worked on a more freelance basis, or as freelance as it got for something they didn't actually get paid for.

Sam and Blaine share a lot of classes, and both work as interns at Stark Industries–he's often wondered how Blaine juggles school, work and so many extracurriculars without superpowers like him, but he's learned not to underestimate Blaine Anderson.

Every once in a while he manages to have a night like this, where nothing else matters but friends and good conversation and he's just an ordinary guy like Blaine or Sam, trying to live life as best he can despite knowing that the world is dark and painful and not quite as simple as most pretend it is.

Maybe he should've known it wouldn't last.

He feels the first shot rather than hears it; it's a sudden jolt in his ribcage and his ears ring for a few seconds, before people start screaming and running around in a disorganized panic. He ducks on instinct, eyes scanning the room meticulously to detect three men, fully armed and masked, each of them covering one of the three exits of the club.

There's no way out. They're all trapped.

The music screeches to a halt and a voice calls, "Nobody move!", another shot following right after.

Dottie's hand twists around his right arm.

Everyone has frozen, some people have sunk to the floor or are hiding under the tables, and he pulls Dottie down too. He's seen his fair share of gung-ho criminals like this and they can be unpredictable.

"We want your wallets and your jewelry," one of the robbers calls, "If you all remain calm and hand over the goods, no one has to get hurt."

"Bullshit," Mike whispers, an arm around Tina, who's close to tears. "You see the heat these guys are packing?"

The military-grade arms were the first things he'd noticed. There was no doubt about it, they were part of The Kingpin's crew; and _escalation_ was their middle name.

"Please, tell me you brought it," Dottie squeaks, her hand tightening around his wrist.

"Don't worry," he shows her his left hand and the ring around his middle finger, his eyes trained on the three robbers making their way through the crowd.

These guys know what they're doing, at least one of them keeps his eyes on the room at all times, and they hover close to the exits. He's not sure he can actually slip away without being noticed, until one of the alpha males in the room decides to have his fifteen minutes of fame; Hunter Clarington, easily the richest guy there and someone who could stand to be taken down a notch, gets up when one of the robbers tries to take his girlfriend's necklace.

That's his window.

"Dot, you stay right here, you hear me?"

Dottie nods furiously.

"Don't move, don't make a sound, and–" He blinks, "Where's Blaine?" he asks, his focus shifted to his immediate surroundings and the boy missing from it. Blaine was here seconds before the first shot–had he slipped away during the initial panic? But where?

"Go, now!" Dottie squeals in a whisper and he doesn't think twice–as long as Blaine's as far away from this as possible he shouldn't worry until after this crisis has been averted.

He flashes straight past one of the robbers to a secluded area, where he releases his costume from its ring encasing. He changes within seconds, back inside the club in no time at all. By the looks of it Hunter has taken a fist to the face, his bottom lip bleeding.

"Now is that any way to treat the heir to the Clarington estate?"

All three robbers have their weapons trained on him before he's finished speaking. He raises his hands in surrender, even though he has no intention of doing so.

"Boss, it's that Flash guy!" the one near the rear exit calls towards the robber at the stage, whispers erupting throughout the entire room.

"Boss, eh?" He raises an eyebrow and turns to face the tallest of the three. "Guess my beef is with you."

"You don't know who you're messing with, pall."

He grins, but doesn't reply. He knows exactly who he's messing with, and any chance to one-up The Kingpin is a gold star in his book. "Would one of you guys mind calling the police?" he asks the crowd. "I'll have this wrapped in no time."

Dottie has told him more than once that he's far snarkier as The Flash, an advantage of wearing a hood that hides his face, and she's warned him that one of these days it's going to get him into more trouble than he bargained for.

And this might be one instance he should've listened to Dottie.

"Let's see you outrun this, Speedy," the gang leader says.

He hears the click of the trigger before the gun fires and he matches his body's speed to that of the bullets before they hit him, two bullets ricocheting off his chest, a third caught in the palm of his hand.

The last bullet clangs to the floor, the room dead silent.

"Did you know that your average bullet travels at a velocity of 681.8 miles per hour?" He's moved behind the gang leader in between two of his heartbeats. "Now guess how fast I am?"

The robber tries to turn, but he catches him in a hammerlock, before slamming his head down on the keyboards, effectively knocking him out. He runs across the room and uses a door to knock out a second robber.

"Flash, he's getting away!" someone shouts, and he turns around to find the third robber gone, disappeared through the side exit.

He races out into the street, but since his superpowers don't include night vision it takes time for his eyes to adjust, though he couldn't have gotten far. He hears a grunt in the alley next to the club, and he speeds over, only to find the third culprit unconscious on the ground, another figure looming over him.

He recognizes the cape with the black bird immediately. _Nightbird_.

"That one was mine."

"You were busy showing off." Nightbird turns around to face him, but he can't make him out at all in the dark–no wonder no one ever manages to get a proper picture of the guy, he's dressed in all black and he's fairly certain he can detect a mask around his eyes. "Thought I'd lend a hand."

His jaw clenches. "You weren't the one being shot at, Bird Boy," he calls, but Nightbird retreats deeper into the shadows.

There's no response.

Sirens sound a few blocks away, which he takes as his cue to head back inside and rejoin his friends before they notice him missing. He'll worry about some dark broody superhero later.

.

His super powered alter ego has been around for a little under two years–it took him time to grow into his powers and learn his own limits, even if he came too close to testing them after he became a costumed hero. But after two years everyone knew who he was, not only the people of Central City but beyond it. People everywhere knew about The Flash, he'd travelled around the world often enough to have stood out there as well.

Nightbird had been a figure shrouded in mystery for close to three years. Half the city believed he existed, the other half thought he was made up by the CCPD to discourage criminals. There were those who claimed to have seen him with their own two eyes, had even talked to him, while others swore it wasn't a man at all, but a genetic experiment escaped from a secret government facility. Others believed Nightbird to be a group of vigilantes working together to fight crime.

He'd caught enough glances here and there to know that Nightbird was in fact a real person, the same person time and time again, and that he was an expert at covering his tracks. He might be fast, but Nightbird kept well informed, often at the scene of a crime before him.

And he had a knack for disappearing into thin air. He could run around the city all night and not find him anywhere, yet every time there was trouble Nightbird would swoop in and save the day, or let him take care of it.

It took him a shamefully long time to realize that Nightbird could in fact fly.

Safe to say, he didn't like the guy.

He never set out to be famous, he still doesn't, but he's found that people knowing about him often acted as a deterrent against more violence. So in truth he just doesn't understand Nightbird, why he never sticks around to see the fruits of his labor, why he never lets anyone see him, why he never shows up in the daylight.

But maybe the answer to that was in the name.

.

He shows up at the coffee shop half an hour too early, but he can't settle his nerves; he hasn't heard from Blaine since yesterday, he couldn't reach him on the phone, didn't find him at his apartment, and none of their friends seemed to have a clue where he went after the robbery–he's worried sick, his stomach turning in knots, even though common sense reminds him Blaine couldn't have gotten hurt.

Blaine walks through the door ten minutes after they agreed to meet up, casual as ever, like last night hadn't happened at all and he didn't need to explain himself.

"Where the hell did you disappear to?"

"Oh, I–" Blaine shakes his head, pushing his glasses up into his hair, and he'd swear he's using the time to come up with a believable excuse. There have been a lot of those lately. "I'm sorry, I ran off in the panic. I was so embarrassed."

He eyes Blaine carefully; he doesn't know what to believe anymore. One moment Blaine was by his side and the next he disappeared into thin air, and it hasn't been limited to last night. He understands school keeps them both busy, but Blaine's been burying himself in his work at Stark Industries–he's afraid that one of these days Blaine will stop bothering with him.

But he can't tell Blaine that; he's been keeping Blaine at arm's length just as long.

"Good thing Speedy showed up when he did."

Blaine steals a chunk of his muffin. "And Nightbird."

"I guess." He shrugs. "I didn't see him."

"It's all over the news." Blaine ducks his head to catch his eyes. "The new crime fighting team?"

"Whatever."

"Whatever?" Blaine's eyebrows shoot up. "Everyone's talking about these guys. I'm having Dottie set up a poll on the website and Tina's taking interviews around campus."

He never talks about The Flash or Nightbird with Blaine, it's a reflex instilled in him because he's afraid that if he mentions either he could give away more than he intends too–Blaine reads him too well and he won't risk the exposure for either of them. "You really think this is material for the paper?"

"We can't choose what we report, Sebastian." Blaine stands up, grabbing his things together. "I gotta run."

"Wh–" He breathes, staring at the chair on the other side of the table, empty once again. "You just sat down."

Blaine presses a quick kiss to his cheek and pulls back, eyes trained on his. "Dinner tonight? My treat?"

And how can he refuse Blaine anything once his hazel eyes seem to melt to that beautiful golden-brown he finds impossible to resist–Blaine's eyes are what lured him in years ago and he's pretty sure he's still hooked. He's pretty sure deep down Blaine knows that and uses it to his advantage whenever he needs something. Right now his love for Blaine battles his anxiety; Blaine is slipping through his fingers and he's letting it happen without saying anything.

Which is nothing new for them.

"Sure," he whispers, watching his best friend walk out on yet another one of their sacred rituals.

.

He can still remember seeing Blaine for the first time.

Two months into his first year of college he'd stumbled into a coffee shop near campus, already late for class, and Blaine had stood flirting with one of the male baristas. He hadn't taken much notice besides the other boy's perky ass swaying from left to right while his elbows rested on the counter, eyes never leaving the barista.

It became normal to see Blaine at the coffee shop. He soon figured out the barista, Eli, was his boyfriend, and the more he saw Blaine the more he stood out; his smile could be decoded in combination with his eyes, he was neat and meticulous and dressed to the nines, and whatever his relationship with Eli was, from the outside it looked sweet and simple, even if he caught Blaine's smile wavering from time to time when Eli flirted with other customers.

The part he can't remember was which of them made the first move, one day he and Blaine just got to talking, about school and a class it turned out they shared, about job searching when college had already upturned their lives, and Blaine had walked him to class. They became fast friends, shared a common interest in science, something that proved lacking in Blaine's relationship, and meeting each other for coffee before class turned into a welcome routine.

Blaine was one of the most fascinating boys he'd ever met–he'd dabbled with a few relationships in high school, none of them lasting because he continually found himself distracted by other more important things, but Blaine's entire body lit up when he talked about engineering and all the things science could accomplish–he found a kindred spirit in Blaine.

And his eyes, God, his eyes, they could somehow shift from an intense hazel to a golden honey color. Rationally he knew it was a mere trick of the light, reflecting a different part of the color spectrum off his irises, but he could get lost in Blaine's eyes. He never allowed it to go that far, Blaine was with Eli, but he fell for Blaine harder every day that went by, every smile, every accidental touch.

Things between Blaine and Eli ended messy, and maybe he moved too fast asking Blaine out, but Blaine said yes and they fell into something passionate and pure without either of them wondering if they'd be right for each other in the long run.

.

Instead of Blaine treating him to dinner, he gets another excuse. It's already well past the hour they agreed to meet when he receives the text: _Won't be able to make dinner. Swamped at work. I promise I'll make it up to you, xB_

Disappointment crashes through him like a wrecking ball, shattering the disillusioned edges of a fantasy where he gets his Blaine back the way he used to be, happy and vibrant and open about his feelings–lately it's a struggle to read Blaine at all.

He throws his phone clean across the loft, where it lands on his bed, but frustration gets the better of him–he paces the living room a few times, hands wiring through his hair, deciding on a night of crime fighting rather than sit around and feel sorry for himself.

His phone rings.

He answers the call three notes into his ringtone. "Blaine?"

"It's me."

He sinks down onto the bed. "What's up, Dot?"

"There's a robbery in progress at 5th and Lexington," Dottie answers, sounding out of breath if not a little excited.

He draws a hand down his face. "I should never have gotten you that police scanner for your birthday."

"I like listening to it when I can't sleep!" Dottie squeaks and he can picture her big brown eyes wide behind her glasses. He has half a mind to tell her he was joking, but he's too puzzled as to how she knew that his plans with Blaine fell through.

"How did you know I wasn't busy?"

"Sam and Blaine just left here," Dottie says. "They needed something for the website."

He utters an, "Oh," without meaning to–he assumed Blaine was over at the company screwing bolts in one of the many projects he was running, but he was wrong. Did Blaine lie to him about what he was doing? _Swamped at work_ usually meant he was working overtime and this could simply be an exception.

Still, it doesn't sit easy with him, thinking of Blaine running around visiting Dottie with Sam when he couldn't be bothered to pop in for a quick dinner–he wasn't expecting anything fancy, but Blaine had promised. He used to be the one to break his promises, so he knows what it feels like to let people down, to know you can't be counted on to be there for the little things, because no matter what people claimed, it's the little things that really mattered. He doesn't want that for Blaine. He doesn't want that _from_ Blaine.

He wants his friend back.

He changes into his costume and hurries to 5th and Lexington as Dottie instructed, where the owner of a small deli's being held at gunpoint. He takes care of everything without his usual flair, barely waiting around to catch the thank you's the store owner throws after him.

A disquiet starts beneath his skin, this situation with Blaine has him shaken and off balance. It was selfish, but Blaine had always been there for him, before the accident he tolerated his excuses and after the accident Blaine was the first sight he woke up to–he'd tried to make up for all the times he'd let Blaine down, did right by him where he could, caught up on everything he'd missed. But it seemed that no matter what he did there's a distance between them that neither of them manage to bridge anymore. He's all too aware that part of that distance was the secrets he kept, that he lied to Blaine all the same, but that was to protect Blaine. What possible reason could Blaine have to lie to him?

Three police cars race by, sirens blaring, tires screeching on the concrete, all headed towards the National Bank down on 26th. He figures he might as well find out what happened–maybe he can help, and it would get his mind off things. He keeps his distance, ducks into an alleyway and up a fire escape to get a better view, but all the police officers head inside and that doesn't tell him anything.

The metal grating shakes underneath his feet, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end when another body joins him on the fire escape.

He turns around, met with pitch-black darkness, so he hazards a guess as to who it is. "If it isn't the Nocturnal Avenger himself," he says. "What happened here?"

"You tell me." Nightbird's nothing but a voice in the dark. "Robbers were in and out, no one saw anything. It's almost as if they moved at the speed of light."

"You're not seriously accusing me of this."

Nightbird takes a step closer, his outlines now discernible, and he'd swear his eyes were glowing inside the dark mask. "Do you know anyone else who runs that fast?"

"Baby, no one runs as fast as me." He grins. "But I didn't do this."

"Cameras say otherwise. I hacked the feed." Nightbird holds out a small device showing one image he downloaded from the security cameras. "Apparently the robber held still long enough to be caught on tape."

His heart speeds up beyond his control: on the screen of Nightbird's neat little gadget there's a picture of him _inside_ the bank–only it's not him, it can't be him, he was on the other side of town when this happened and why on earth would he even rob a bank? Anyone could make a suit that resembled his and decide to go out for a stroll–only Dottie's ever seen him with his hood down, so someone else could easily be mistaken.

"That could be anyone."

"But everyone's going to think it was you."

"This was The Kingpin." He turns and bites his lip. The Kingpin's the only one who stood to gain from discrediting him, though he's puzzled as to why he resorted to this. It's not like anyone will believe The Flash had anything to do with this. "I must really be pissing him off."

"That's all you have to say?" Nightbird takes another step closer, and when he turns around to face him again he catches a vaguely familiar scent, something fruity, reminiscent of a sense of security and belonging. "We need to work together on this."

He shakes his head. "Sorry, darling, but I work alone." He speeds down the steps into the alley. "You could never keep up!" he calls back, but Nightbird's nowhere to be seen. He hates it when he does that.

"You can't watch the skies." Nightbird's voice sounds above him. He rolls his eyes. _Show-off_, he thinks, watching Nightbird land safely in front of him. "And you can't see in the dark."

"You can–" _of course_ he can see in the dark, it explains how he moves around in it so easily and so fast, why he remains in the dark and it doesn't seem to hinder him. Teaming up with Nightbird could be beneficial to both of them, though he should really invest in some night vision goggles if he plans to keep up. "I guess I could use the assistance."

A scornful laugh sounds through the black.

"Meet me tomorrow at the water tower," Nightbird says. "Midnight."

.

The Kingpin had been making a name for himself for close to a decade. No one knew where he came from or how he made his fortune, but he rose as one of the most powerful crime lords in Central City in no time at all, and he'd probably walked over a lot of corpses to do so. His organization had been tied to over a hundred crimes–robbery, extortion, kidnapping, fraud, murder, no crime was too small for The Kingpin and his henchmen.

As a kid growing up in Central City he heard the name spoken in shady places, whispered by regular people because they feared that if they spoke too loud The Kingpin might find them and have them killed in their sleep–he never paid him much attention, he was safe living on the farm, far away from the city where the mafia operated, so he never had to worry about any nasty run-ins.

But that changed. Once he moved to the Lower East Side he saw people get mugged, the Kingpin's enforcers threatening store owners to pay protection money, people beat up in alleys or even on the street in broad daylight, and the police unable to do anything about it. No one ever talked.

He learned to keep his head down.

Until he discovered a truth that haunted him every single day.

He'd snuck into his stepdad's office in search of his father's police file–he'd gotten hold of the computer password and his stepdad's login and printed the reports, crime scene photos, witness statements, everything he could find on file, and taken it upstairs to his room, where he'd spent night after night reading through everything.

And he thinks he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind he knew his parents had been struggling, that someone had made a bid on the farm, had tried to force his dad to sell his land so that the ground could be used for the construction of luxury homes. That someone went by the name of Wilson Fisk, a legitimate businessman who was generous and gave to charity, and no one had any reason to suspect him of working with The Kingpin.

So he'd dug deeper, unearthed property records of other farms that had been leveled, and a scary pattern emerged, a pattern of accidents, intentional pollution, sabotage... Had murder been the next logical step because his father had refused to sell?

He'd run to his stepfather because he had nowhere else to go, he had nothing to fight back with, he was a seventeen-year-old kid obsessed with his own father's death without the means to bring justice to those who deserved it. And however much he'd disagreed with his stepdad in the past, he spoke to him like a man, not a broken boy, he said there was nothing the police could do, there was no evidence, no paper trail, only the growing suspicions within the police force that Wilson Fisk and The Kingpin were working together.

But for him there was no other way to turn it: if Fisk was the brains and the money, then The Kingpin provided the muscle. And they were both responsible for his father's death.

.

Dottie pretty much runs the paper from her dorm room, so he's not surprised to find Sam and Blaine there. As far as he can tell Sam and Dottie are arguing about a layout issue over by her desk, while Blaine sits on Dottie's bed with a laptop in his lap, concentrated on whatever's on the screen.

He sits down next to Blaine. "What's going on?"

Blaine's head snaps up. "You didn't hear? The Flash robbed a bank. The forums are exploding."

If his face falls he's not sure he hides it as expertly as he usually does, nausea stirring at the pit of his stomach. "You don't honestly believe that," he says, the gravity of the situation slowly sinking in. Nightbird warned him about this, he said the world would think the man on the tape was him.

"Of course not," Blaine answers, going back to the computer screen. "But it's news."

"Even if it's wrong?"

Blaine looks up at him. "Since when do you care about The Flash?"

It seemed unthinkable last night, there was just some guy in a costume that resembled his own, caught on camera because The Kingpin had wanted it so. But that's not The Flash, he stood for justice in this city, he's not some petty bank robber. But as his eyes scan over words like 'outrage' and 'unacceptable' on the screen Blaine's monitoring it all becomes too real. People actually believed The Flash would do this.

_My son looked up to this guy._

_This is what happens when you let people like this run free._

_I can't believe I trusted this guy to keep me safe. He's no better than the criminals he fights._

His eyes go out of focus–he's become a fallen hero, knocked off his pedestal, and he's not sure this is salvageable. This happened overnight because of one fake picture. Had he underestimated people's faith in him? Once people decided what kind of man you are that kind of reputation tended to stick. Falling is easy, it's getting back up that's the real feat.

"Are you okay?" Blaine asks.

"I'm fine." He swallows hard, attempting to control his breathing. "Just–disappointed, I guess."

"I don't actually believe he did this," Blaine says, leaning into him. "He's one of the good guys. But I have to run with this."

He meets Blaine's eyes, "Yeah, I get it," he says, oddly comforted that his best friend doesn't think him capable of this, even though there's no way for Blaine to know he's reassuring The Flash himself. He never worried about this, he never cared about what people thought because he was doing good and people's gratitude was enough–he didn't get into this for the fame or the glory, he had these powers and this drive and becoming a masked hero was the only way he knew how to put his powers to good use.

There's a part of him that feels betrayed, he's never given anyone a reason to think he was capable of this, so why were they so fast to believe it?

Blaine switches tabs, revealing an article he seems to be proofreading, and it's three words in the title that immediately demand his attention.

"_The Nocturnal Avenger_?" He frowns, reminded that he used those same words to describe Nightbird.

"I came up with it myself," Blaine answers. "You don't like it?"

"No, it's fine," he says, convinced it's just a coincidence, Blaine wasn't there and he could've used the term before, he must've forgotten about it. And it's not completely unimaginable that someone else would come up with the same name.

He tries to shake the feeling for the second time in two days, how something about Nightbird reminded him of Blaine and vice versa, but he's pretty sure those are his two lives bleeding into each other–it was bound to happen sooner or later. He's surprised it took this long.

He leans a little closer to Blaine. "You're gonna be late for class," he whispers, smiling as he watches Blaine slowly coming to and checking his watch.

"Shit," Blaine curses and closes his laptop. "Sam, we have to go."

Sam and Blaine both pack their things together.

"We still on for tonight?"

"Y–" Blaine turns back a little dazed, as if he's just remembered what day it is. "Sure. I can't stay late though."

"You're going to violate the sanctity of movie night again?" He gets up from the bed. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"There's–" Blaine blushes and shakes his head, before smiling up at him. "There's no guy." He shrugs, unconsciously reaching over for the strings on his hoodie, giving them a teasing tug. "It's just work, and school. I have all this stuff piling up and–" Blaine tugs at the strings again. "I don't know how you do it."

"Easy." He grins, trying really hard not to take a step closer. "I have super powers."

Blaine laughs, "See you later," before making his way out of the room behind Sam.

Dottie clucks her tongue, staring up at him with her all-but-innocent eyes, turning half circles in her desk chair.

"What?"

But if Dottie planned to point out how _obviously in love_ he was yet again she keeps it to herself. "I've been thinking," she says instead, pointedly putting up her index finger. "I should have a codename."

"A codename?"

"Like Castle, or Watch Tower," she sums up. "Or Chai Ti!" She turns her chair and looks at him, clearly expecting his input. "Well? What do you think? I have to protect my identity too."

And by now he knows better than to tempt Dottie's wrath. "You're right," he says. "My enemies can never know you exist. So, Chai Ti–"

Dottie beams.

"–are you ready for your first mission?"

.

Dottie was the only one who knew how he spent his nights. He never meant for it to happen, it was a combination of circumstances that involved his own stupidity and the sheer dumb luck of Dottie being in the right place when he needed her the most.

He met Dottie through Blaine, and was quick to notice that besides knowing her way around computer code, Dottie had the compulsive habit of hacking into databases she had no business perusing through. But it was a talent he exploited for his own benefit.

She'd let him charm her into a few assignments for him, like hack into the crime lab or the CCPD central servers, all under the guise of professional curiosity–he was never entirely convinced she bought his paper thin excuses for wanting a look behind certain firewalls, but she never said anything, not if what he asked was a challenge, or something new she'd never tried before.

It was one of Dottie's overconfident exploits that had landed The Flash bleeding on the backseat of her car.

She'd meant well, she'd solved enough puzzles for him to conclude he had a special interest in Wilson Fisk and anything to do with The Kingpin, so she'd done some digging on her own. What she'd found had brought back all the pain, all the despair the twelve-year-old him felt when his father got ripped from him so violently it couldn't help but leave a mark.

There were a lot of numbers involved, mathematics he couldn't understand and a money trail not even the police had been able to discern. But Dottie's research uncovered that Wilson Fisk wasn't working with The Kingpin at all.

Wilson Fisk _was_ The Kingpin.

Dottie couldn't have known it would set him off, she couldn't have known that with his newfound abilities the only thing he could think of doing was to take justice into his own hands and go after the man responsible for his father's death. He acted reckless and irresponsible, fueled by anger and heartache and everything in between.

He'd found Wilson Fisk at his home and confronted him, all behind the safety of his hood. Fisk had denied everything, he'd _laughed_ at him and in his blind rage he charged the man without thinking, without checking to see if they were alone first.

He was forced to learn his limits that night, he might've moved faster than the speed of light but he wasn't invulnerable, he had to know a bullet was coming to dodge it–and that night, as a bullet lodged itself inside his ribcage, he watched his entire life flash by before his eyes, the little things, the big things, his secret life standing in the way of a relationship he wanted but didn't allow himself to pursue anymore, his wounded pride leaving him bleeding at the feet of the man responsible for so much pain, so much suffering.

But something in him fought back, an electric current coursed fast through every cell in his body and it got him to his feet, got his body moving to start the healing process, led him to the college car park where an unknowing Dottie Kazatori was about to get the shock of her life.

"Stop the bleeding," he'd pleaded once Dottie got over the initial shock of finding out that the speeding avenger and the chemistry major were one and the same person. She'd pressed her jacket and both hands to his wound while all he could think about was Blaine, the last kiss they ever shared and how most of his regrets boiled down to letting that love slip through his fingers.

"Keep me awake," his vision blurred around a hysterical Dottie, but he'd already made it clear he couldn't go to any hospital–there'd be too many things he couldn't explain and The Kingpin could easily track him there.

He'd learned too many of his limits that night, the line between his pain and his need for revenge, the form that revenge took once his target came in full view.

He'd never take a chance like that again.

.

His feet dangle precariously over the ledge of one of the high-rises, his back to the large water tower dominating the rooftop. The city's alive below him, lights and sounds, cars and pedestrians bustling through Central City's busy night life. He's toying with the night vision goggles Dottie got him, while time lapses well past midnight.

"You're late," he calls, once he discerns Nightbird's footsteps on the rooftop behind him, and when he hears Nightbird curse under his breath he can't help but smile–it reminds him of Blaine, who'd left the loft no half hour ago to finish some homework. They'd had a nice night in, Blaine had even been on time, they had dinner and watched some classic comedy Blaine borrowed from Sam. He wishes they had more nights like that.

Nightbird gets straight down to business: "You could've told me you stopped an armed robbery around the same time the bank was robbed."

"Must've slipped my mind," he answers, even though he hadn't brought it up because he never believed he'd need an alibi. Now it seemed their partnership hinged on that very fact. He's not all that eager to accept Nightbird's help when it's clear even the mighty Nocturnal Avenger thought him capable of robbery. But he's in deep and he knows it, and Nightbird seems to have resources to his disposal he lacks.

"Might be enough to convince the police," Nightbird says.

"I don't know, I'm pretty fast."

"You do realize I'm trying to clear your name."

He shrugs. "All I'm saying is that people will bring up the 'faster than the speed of light' thing."

"Does that make you faster than Superman?" Nightbird asks and it comes so surprisingly close to a joke that for a moment or two he's not sure what to say in return. Despite knowing of each other's existence for a while they'd never actually interacted before last night besides a few snide remarks, exclusively from his side.

"I don't know, I've never raced Superman."

He gets up from the ledge, raising the night vision goggles to his eyes.

Nightbird rears back, his cape wrapped protectively around his body.

"Relax." He takes in the body in front of him–for some reason he thought his fellow masked vigilante would be taller. "Only fair I get a peek too."

From what he can tell Nightbird's hair matches the jet-black color of his costume, slicked back carefully with an excessive amount of gel, his suit form-fitting beneath the blue-ish chest plate–he assumes it's made up of some kind of bulletproof alloy. A equally black mask covers Nightbird's eyes, halfway down his nose, his eyes burning white in the green static of his goggles.

"Spandex looks great on you, Nightboy."

Nightbird growls. "It's Nightbird."

"Whatever you say." He smiles, taking a few steps closer. "So how are we going to play this?" he asks. "You take to the skies while I scour the streets? What exactly are we looking for?"

But he knew the answer to that question before hearing it. "We have to find The Kingpin and stop him," Nightbird says, and there's a razor sharp pain that cuts through him, like a knife turned in an open wound–whether or not they're really allies he can't let someone else make his mistakes.

"No." He turns around, looking over the vast city in front of them, keeping his voice as steady as he can manage. "You don't touch The Kingpin. I learned that the hard way."

It's not easy for him to admit it, least of all to a total stranger, but bulletproof or not, facing The Kingpin is a terrible idea even for heroes that can fly. "The best you can do is damage his organization."

Silence falls for long drawn-out moments and he can't decide if Nightbird's battling his own need for revenge or if he's still deciding if he's trustworthy. He won't go after The Kingpin again, not directly, no matter what Nightbird says–that would endanger them both, or worse, it could lead Fisk straight to Dottie if he ever had another hacker check his firewalls.

"Let's hit him where it hurts," Nightbird answers at long last, a conviction in his voice that matches his own. "Meet here again tomorrow."

"You sure you can trust me?"

"I know you're one of the good guys."

He turns around but never gets the chance to ask–Nightbird's disappeared in the dark, the sounds of the city slowly returning after the swoosh of his wings dies out. _One of the good guys_. Hadn't Blaine used the exact same words this morning?

.

The next night Nightbird shows up at the stroke of midnight. They hadn't set a time so he's been out patrolling the city for a few hours, he's pumped on adrenaline and ready to start whatever it is their alliance is meant to achieve.

"Here," Nightbird hands him a small device that looks like one of those hands-free kits for cell phones, meant to fit snug in his ear. "I need to be able to contact you."

He eyes the device suspiciously. If this is meant to be an alliance, how come it feels like he's becoming the other man's puppet? He's faster than any of these gadgets can relay signals back and forth, he has no need for them the way Nightbird seems to, and he's more than a little apprehensive about being Nightbird's charity case.

"Don't worry," Nightbird notes his hesitation. "Even I couldn't track these," he says, fitting his own headset in his ear, and suddenly he's far more worried about someone discovering his true identity rather than becoming Nightbird's glorified sidekick.

"Got you these too." Nightbird tosses him a pair of glasses he catches effortlessly, the glasses tinted a dirty yellow, a few buttons on the frame. He puts them on and pulls himself deeper inside his hood, and as soon as he pushes the first of the buttons he can see his surroundings light up, much like the clunky night vision goggles he'd donned last night; these, however, were far handier and he could wear them all the time.

"Why the generosity?" he asks, walking up to the edge of the roof to look out over the city–if he's not mistaken he can switch between an array of image enhancements inside the infrared spectrum and thermal imaging. He wonders if this is how Nightbird always sees the world. He wonders how Nightbird gets by during the day. But he's also left with a burning curiosity as to where exactly he gets these gadgets. They can't be cheap, and he can't imagine Nightbird as a Tony Stark once the mask and costume come off.

"I need you to keep up."

He whirls around lightning fast and locates Nightbird standing a few feet away, but he's most definitely not joking this time around.

"_Me_ keep up with _you_?"

Nightbird's lips curl into a smirk. "You heard me."

.

It's the beginning of a strange but lucrative partnership. Thanks to Nightbird's gadgets they can stay in constant contact, even though it takes some time for them to agree exactly when the devices will be active–it's clear they both want to keep their identities a secret and they respect that–they don't know each other well enough and he's not sure they even trust each other enough to reveal who they really are.

So some nights are like any other night, him running through the city on his own, with the water tower as a point of reference. They leave each other messages and he pops up there often enough never to miss anything–he guesses the roof's pretty visible from above because Nightbird never misses a beat either.

Other nights they're a coordinated team, they relay their locations so they don't end up at the same scene together, unless it turns out they need back up. He feels safer knowing Nightbird has his back in more extreme situations, especially when there's more than one perpetrator involved, and especially when there are guns in the mix.

.

Once the news breaks that Nightbird and The Flash are working together it's all the media can talk about–it's his fault, he lingers at a crime scene and Nightbird's by his side long enough for both of them to be spotted. Nightbird's none too pleased, but agrees that it helps restore his image as a hero rather than a villain, but becomes extra careful about being seen by curious bystanders.

Unsurprisingly, Blaine turns into a total fanboy, going on and on about the new crime-fighting team and dedicating several articles of the paper to detailing Nightbird's and The Flash's known history. Dottie tells him that Blaine's even considering a crime column to keep track of their nightly exploits. He doesn't say anything, the paper isn't his business and he's tried his best to let Blaine believe he didn't care about any superheroes roaming the streets. It's more for his benefit, he doesn't want to create too much overlap between his two lives for fear of not being able to separate them in the long run. Right now he understands where Sebastian ends and The Flash starts, and he'd like to keep it that way. If that means faking disinterest, then so be it.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say you have a thing for the man in red," he remarks when one day he walks into Blaine's apartment, his coffee table littered with pictures of The Flash some lucky photographers managed to snap. Most of them are pretty blurry though.

"Who says you do know better?" Blaine smiles up at him and winks, seated comfortably on the floor between the couch and coffee table, seemingly undecided on what picture would accompany his latest article.

He laughs and makes his way into the kitchen, grabbing some plates and forks together for the Chinese food he bought on his way here.

"I don't understand how you can be so indifferent," Blaine calls. "They're superheroes."

"I'll admit there's a certain allure to a guy who risks his life to protect others." He dumps the food on a free spot on the table, before settling down next to Blaine and unpacking the boxes one by one. "But we have a functioning _legal_ _justice system_ that does the same thing."

"Spoken like a cop's son," Blaine says, his eyes burning holes in him once he averts his–Blaine's well aware Charles isn't his real father, but he never told him the details of how his father died, it's always been too painful to talk about. Years ago it was equally painful to realize Blaine wanted him to open up about those traumatizing aspects of his life. Problem is he doesn't know how to.

Blaine bumps shoulders with him and reaches for a box of food. "Maybe I just have a thing for red spandex," he jokes, alleviating some of the pressure but not enough to steer their conversation back to the playful tone it had when he walked in.

Blaine always forgives. But he never forgets.

.

If there's one downside to working with Nightbird it's his focus on the job–beneath that black mask hides the cold and detached exterior of an epic bore. Every time he tries to start a conversation during one of their longer stakeouts Nightbird's completely unresponsive and he's lucky to get so much as a grunt out of him.

Tonight's no exception.

"What do you do when you're not fighting social injustice?" he asks, figuring it's already a question asked in vain, but they've been waiting for something to come in over the police scanners for almost an hour and he's getting antsy–any moment now he's going to start running circles around the city just for kicks.

"What?"

"Do you hang around brooding in your Night Cave all day, or do you have an actual life?" he asks, and takes a few steps towards Nightbird, catching another faint whiff of that fruity scent–_it's raspberries_, he realizes, and it's coming from Nightbird's hair gel. "Who is the Nocturnal Avenger, really?" he asks, while Nightbird backs away from him.

"Why are you so interested?

"Just making conversation." He shrugs, and attempts to shake off the disconcerting sensation that parts of his two lives have started overlapping once again–it's his imagination, he's convinced of it, most of his spare time lies divided between being in love with an adorable nerd and fighting crime with a flying superhero so it's unavoidable that his mind's trying to make sense of it as a whole. Still, he needs to get a grip before these tiny coincidences start throwing him off his game.

But there's little chance of that with Marty McBrood by his side. "We're not here for small talk," Nightbird says, effectively cutting short any conversation they might have.

He's not interested in who Nightbird is, even though curiosity gets the better of him from time to time like it would anyone, but as long he's not comfortable with revealing his true identity, he doesn't think it's fair to ask the same.

It's easy to forget there's a person behind the mask though, especially when Nightbird insists on keeping conversation to a minimum. He has to remind himself he's with an actual human being, who probably has friends and family waiting at him, wherever that is, a man not unlike him, capable of extraordinary things.

But still vulnerable all the same.

.

Sometimes he covers the city during the day, while Nightbird guards the night.

He never asks, but he suspects Nightbird prefers to avoid the exposure in the daylight.

.

For as long as he can remember Christmas has been a family occasion; he and his dad used to take an entire day to find the perfect tree, and he'd make ornaments with his mom while they sang Christmas carols. To this day his mom decorates the tree with his dad's favorite ornaments, and he's never known Charles to be jealous–it started out as his mom's way of keeping his dad alive for him, because he was so young when he died, along with the pictures of their family she kept all around the apartment. Now it's her way of remembering him, resurrecting his memory from time to time to make sure she never forgets, _he never forgets_, and his father never fades to a faceless fact.

Christmas was a quiet holiday, initially celebrated in the solitude of the farm, then the apartment they moved to, and now the house his mom and Charles lived in, a big meal followed by presents and catching up around the fireplace, and some hot chocolate should their appetites allow.

These past few years he's made it a point to never miss Christmas–late or not, he'd show up because it made his mom happy. Blaine spent Christmas with his own family and statistically crime rates dropped to a yearly low around the holidays, so he relaxes, if only for one night.

This year he even manages to show up a few hours early, so he's put to work in the kitchen, but he cherishes the time alone with his mom. She continually assures him she's not lonely, that he shouldn't worry too much and focus on school, yet the guilt he feels over not being a better son adds an extra weight to his shoulders. His mother deserves better, and he wishes that was a present he could tie up with a colorful bow and place underneath the Christmas tree.

But in lieu of that personality transplant he's on his best behavior instead, makes conversation at the dinner table, talks about his school projects and what he's looking forward to next semester, informs his mom that he's still a straight A student without mentioning that it takes him a single read-through of his course books to retain the information. He's toyed with the idea of telling his mom what he can do, share his secret the way he has with Dottie and he's dreamed that it would bring them closer together, but he chickens out every time. And he's had plenty of opportunities.

"You read our school paper?" he asks, surprised to hear his mom mention Blaine's new crime column, which had featured for the first time earlier this week.

His mom smiles and nods, fully aware how much Blaine means to him. Any moment now he'll get the usual _you and Blaine worked so well together_ lament and there's never a whole lot he can disagree with. If his life were less complicated and he didn't struggle to balance out his two lives on a daily basis, he'd fight harder to keep Blaine in his life, he'd tell him how he feels and maybe even open up about things he'd never told anyone before.

"Blaine's obsessed with Nightbird and The Flash," he answers. "He thinks they're the city's future."

"And you?" his stepdad asks.

His stepdad's the main reason he can't tell his mom about his alter ego–Charles knows about his reservations about the criminal justice system. Despite the fact that he decided to pursue a career in that same justice system he understands it's flawed, sometimes it fails to achieve its purpose and the people it was created to protect. He's often grateful The Flash isn't bound by the same laws.

"I think they do more good than harm," he answers as economically as he can manage–the Mayor has gone on record saying Nightbird and The Flash consider themselves above the law, playing judge and jury and some day no one will be able to stop them from becoming executioners too, so most cops didn't hold superheroes in very high regard. He couldn't expect his stepdad to be any different.

"You know they've been systematically targeting the Kingpin's operations."

His eyes skip to his mom, who's fixedly staring at the table. "Have they?" he asks, and regrets all the times he's talked about The Kingpin, every time he upset his mother by voicing his frustration about the lack of progress in his father's case. Unlike him, his mom isn't driven by a need for answers or revenge–she's accepted the things she can't change and she's given her trauma a place. He's often torn between hating and envying her for that.

"None of that talk at the dinner table," his mother perks up, reaching for one of his and one of his stepfather's hands. "It's Christmas." She smiles. "We're a family. Let's cherish that and forget that awful man."

He smiles softly and gives his mother's hand a squeeze; he can't tell her he's the red blur racing through the city every night, it would only add to her worry, but he can never help but wonder if she'd be so passive in her anger if she knew he'd found the man who killed his father.

.

He spends New Year's with Blaine. It's sort of a tradition for them, even though neither of them call it that–it's been unspoken ever since their first New Year's, those precious memories in their past held tight between hopeful fingertips. They never admit they keep the tradition alive for exactly that reason, afraid the past will lapse forgotten and misplaced, and they'll lose track of something they both still feel but fear will become tragically overwritten by a lesser love.

Blaine makes them dinner at his apartment and he's shocked to find Sam wasn't invited. He sips his wine in silence and helps Blaine work some of his magic, secret smiles and teasing nudges making way for playful banter over dinner. Blaine's been working tirelessly these past few weeks and it shows, around his eyes and his smile, but it doesn't stop him from wanting to spend time with him.

By the time the fireworks start they've made their way up to the roof and pour themselves another glass of wine as the sky fills with the colors of the rainbow–there's no real need for words, he's happy to just be around Blaine on a night that has become so special for them both, even if neither of them so much as implies it.

But he trips up in a moment of weakness, caught stuck in nostalgia and the lack Blaine has started representing–things are going so well in his other life that he craves to balance it out in this and no matter what lies he chooses to fool himself with, Blaine will always be a part of that.

"You seem happy," he says. Nothing gets Blaine down, he takes on so many projects at the company, delegates for the paper and has school on top of that, yet his shoulders have relaxed, there's a sense of calm pervading his body that hasn't been there for a very long time, and he's not nearly stupid enough to think it's because of him.

Blaine turns his head, a mild frown creasing between his eyebrows. "I'm a happy guy."

"No, I mean–" He smiles involuntarily, and takes a step closer. "You seem more relaxed than usual."

"I'm working with a new team at the company." Blaine nods. "It's lightened the load."

They're facing each other now, Blaine's eyes alight with every color in the spectrum. "I'm glad," he says softly, drawn to Blaine the same way he was years ago, and if he's being honest every moment since–sometimes he even forgets what drove them apart, what made Blaine question his commitment and what made him throw it all away. Because he wants to be with Blaine in every way possible.

But then there's always the inevitable moment of hesitation, Blaine's this time; he clears his throat and averts his eyes, refocusing on the fireworks and the glass of wine in his hand. His heart stutters disappointment yet again, but he's reasoned his way out of this plenty of times: his life's too complicated, nothing's changed, and he'd be forced to lie to Blaine every step of the way, he'd have to sneak out at night and leave Blaine alone in bed, while every night could turn out to be the night he doesn't return. And at the end of the day, quite simply, Blaine deserves better than that.

He can't be selfish with Blaine. No more than he already is.

.

Crime rates drop to an all-time low, but a representative of the Central City Police Department warns people to remain vigilant; Nightbird and The Flash don't stop all crime after all, and everyone would do well to remember these so-called heroes could disappear as quickly as they showed up. The criticism didn't bother him, nor did it seem to worry Nightbird, they can't be everywhere, but they're making a real difference, and he hasn't felt this good about what he does since he first started out.

Two years ago he was foolishly hopeful, discovering his abilities and everything was new and exciting. He'd believed he could find his father's killers and bring them to justice, finally closing a chapter in his life of which the ending seemed unattainable.

Reality, of course, turned out far less appealing. He never thought he'd uncover an entire underground criminal network weaved into every part of the city, including the court and the police department–The Kingpin had bought judges and bribed jurors, paid cops for information on important investigations. Unlike his stepfather, he saw every single flaw in the city's justice system trace back to one man: _Wilson Fisk_.

He couldn't prove it, even if there was physical evidence or a money trail he didn't know who to trust, who to turn to for help. So to some extent, he did take the law into his own hands, stopped The Kingpin's men from making important transactions, dealt with drug dealers and pimps in his own way–it's not like he wasn't fast enough. A lot of times it felt like he did it all in vain, one drug dealer replaced the other and new product found its way onto the streets. But at least criminals grew frightened. And that only led them to make mistakes.

It was a long road, he fought for every single step forward, but it was better than sitting idle and watching The Kingpin take control of Central City, take fathers away from their sons and destroy families in his wake. No, if the only thing he ever achieved was to become a beacon of hope for a new generation that fought injustice, he would be proud of that legacy.

And then came Nightbird, a masked hero as motivated as he was to fight crime and protect those unable to defend themselves. They made a good team, even if both of them have been reluctant to call themselves that, and the longer he worked alongside Nightbird the easier it became to forget that at the end of the day... they didn't like each other.

"Do you always have to joke around with them first?" Nightbird sighs, landing safely next to him after he dealt with a stubborn mugger who'd attempted to give him a run for his money. How could he resist joking around?

"Come on." He grins. "It's half the fun."

"What we do isn't for fun."

"Buzzkill," he sneers. "I sincerely hope you have a hobby outside of all this, because that giant stick up your ass won't get you laid any time soon."

An eerie silence falls, but experience has taught him Nightbird never fires back with a fresh insult; he prefers to retreat back into the shadows and search for safety there, avoiding confrontation at any cost. He can't figure out if it's simple reticence or a deeper fear that his identity might be discovered–he can never seem to get under Nightbird's skin whenever he tries. It's like Nightbird knows his intentions and purposely steers clear from open conflict, much to his dismay.

He would love to see Nightbird become a little unhinged.

.

Weeks pass by unhindered and it has an unmistakable effect on his relationship with Blaine; whatever new team had joined Blaine at Stark Industries had freed up more time for them to waste in each other's company and Blaine's hardly ever late. Movie nights still get cancelled, he has a duty to Nightbird now too, but he never experiences any resentment on Blaine's part. If anything they're both a lot more conscious of the time they do spend together.

"Barkeep!" he calls, rapping his knuckles on the table in quick succession, cheered on by a chorus of laughter.

A warm body leans into his, the six of them huddled close together in a corner of the club. "Don't you think you should slow down?" Blaine asks, but he doesn't miss the playful lilt in his tone, which probably means that Blaine's the one who should slow down.

Granted, he's had more than a few drinks, but his friends don't know his body burns through alcohol at an alarming rate, and he hasn't been able to get drunk since his accident. Not that he's ever tested those limits. He turns into Blaine's body and mutters a quiet, "Nah", which earns him a bemused chuckle.

Blaine kisses his temple, earning them a catcall from Sam and Mike. Sometimes he thinks the only person unaware that he's in love with Blaine is Blaine himself. Blaine's eyes narrow on his supposed best friends, "I'll get us some more drinks," he says and stands up, making his way to the bar.

He falls into a discussion with Sam about why the first _Back to the Future_ movie is more superior than the sequels, and naturally that's followed by Sam's best Doc impression. Tina and Dottie talk excitedly about a shopping spree they have planned in a few days, Mike checking to see if Blaine needs help carrying their drinks–Mike's face falls within seconds.

"Guys." Mike scoots to the edge of his seat, eyes pinned to the bar, and they all turn to look.

At first sight it seems Blaine's talking to a random guy at the bar, but upon closer inspection it's clear Blaine's not interested in anything the guy has to offer; his body faces the other way, he refuses to make eye contact, and whenever he smiles the corner of his mouth twitches. But the guy doesn't appear dissuaded by Blaine's rejection–he crowds closer to Blaine and reaches an arm down to grab at Blaine's ass.

His fingers dig into the leather cushion beneath him. He remains seated because Blaine can handle himself, but he filters through all the noises in the club, zoning in on Blaine and his clearly unwanted admirer.

Blaine pulls a step back, respectfully declining whatever offer the stranger made him. "Listen, I'm flattered, but–"

The other man grabs Blaine's arm. "Why are you playing hard to get?"

He's out of his seat before any of his friends can stop him, he closes the distance between him and the bar, barely restraining from using his powers, and places a hand on the stranger's shoulder, perhaps too firmly.

"Do we have a problem here?" he asks, relieved to see a hint of gratitude touch Blaine's eyes. He's not exactly the jealous type, he's more than willing to give Blaine the freedom to meet and date other guys, but that'll never staunch the aching need to protect him–maybe because deep down he harbors the hope that Blaine sticks around for the same reason he tries so hard to be there for him. Maybe deep down he hopes Blaine still has feelings for him too.

"What the hell is your problem?" The stranger shakes off his hand, taking a menacing step towards him.

He looks at Blaine, consciously ignoring Blaine's admirer. "You okay?"

Blaine nods and moves to grab the tray of drinks from the bar, when suddenly he hears Dottie scream his name–he turns around on instinct but it's too late; he takes a fist to the face, right to his eye socket, which he hopes hurts his attacker more than it hurts him. He hurtles towards the floor all the same, disoriented, his vision blurred, head pounding, his dignity lost the moment he saw that fist coming his way but was too slow to react.

It takes him a few moments to notice Blaine's knelt down by his side. "Oh my God, you're bleeding," he says, and sure enough a warm line trickles down his cheek, the skin above his eye broken.

Someone close by spits, and talk about alpha male behavior, his attacker stands tall over him, staring down at him with an icy smirk and dead eyes. He scrambles upright, spurned by a sense of justice fuelled by a deep need for revenge, but Blaine's stops him from doing anything stupid. "He's not worth it, Sebastian."

His eye stings with blood.

"Come on." Blaine pulls him away from the scene and into the men's bathroom, guiding his left eye underneath a faucet to rinse the blood out. He presses some toilet paper to the wound in an effort to stop the bleeding.

"Shit, that really hurt," he curses–just because it'll heal fast doesn't mean he can't feel pain, and he wishes he'd caught onto the guy's mean streak sooner. He gets into enough brawls during his nightly escapades, he has no need to get punched in his everyday life too.

Blaine smiles. "You've never been punched, have you?"

"I got–" He stops before he says _I got shot once_. "Yeah, no, I haven't."

"Wuss," Blaine jokes.

Blaine decides they're not sticking around for any more fistfights. They say goodbye to the rest of the gang right after he assures everyone he's okay, and Blaine insists on walking him home to tend to his wound some more. The cut will have healed by morning, but who's he to argue with Blaine's infinite wisdom if it means spending more time with him.

"Sit down," Blaine commands the second they make it up to the loft. "I'll get the first aid kit."

Blaine heads straight for the bathroom like a man on a mission and returns with the kit and a wet cloth. He sits down facing him just shy of his lap, gently peeling the toilet paper off his face. "I don't think you'll need stitches." Blaine winces in his stead and dabs the cloth around the wound to soak up some of the blood.

"That's a mercy," he says, reaching an arm over Blaine's lap to get it out of the way. "My face is my fortune."

Blaine scowls while a smile plays around his mouth, clearly enamored by his silly jokes; he applies some antiseptic that stings across his forehead, but he's too busy reveling at Blaine's proximity. He can't smell his new raspberry-scented shampoo, maybe he changed it, but his eyes rake over the patches of skin revealed by Blaine's shirt, his collarbone and the first hint of chest hair, and a scent that's uniquely Blaine's.

Blaine pulls back and applies a band-aid, settling his body heavy against his. It reminds him of their movie nights, or rainy days years ago when Blaine would lean back against him and he'd wrap them both up in the same blanket. He never misses that lack of distance more than when one of them unconsciously pulls closer, erasing any doubt he might have about his feelings for Blaine. He may be blind and closed off, but he never sees Blaine clearer than in moments like these, and he knows with pinpoint clarity he could never love anyone the way he loves Blaine.

"Look at you." Blaine chuckles, blushing when he catches him staring. "You're a mess," he adds, and drags the wet cloth down the side of his face.

"I don't regret what I did." He tilts his head back so Blaine can wipe under his chin. "Guy should learn to take no for an answer."

Blaine smiles. "And as much as I love you for defending my honor, I can take care of myself."

"Didn't look like it," he teases, all too aware Blaine could've brought the guy down without breaking a sweat–he started boxing in high school after being bullied so much, and he wouldn't be surprised if he picked up other fighting techniques over the years. Blaine could stand his own, easily.

"Two more seconds and I would've had that guy on his ass."

He laughs, too distracted by Blaine not moving to make a clever remark in turn–he's lost faith in ever achieving any kind of balance between this life and the one he lives in secret, but if he gets this instead he'll gladly take the alternative. Because having Blaine close will never feel wrong.

"But thank you." Blaine thumbs at his collar. "It's nice to know I have a hero watching over me."

And if there was ever anything he absolutely needed to hear he could never have guessed it was this, his best friend, _the boy he loves_, telling him he doesn't need a mask or even superpowers to be a hero to him–he doesn't have to prove anything or pretend to be someone he's not. He doesn't even have to hide, but he'd never jeopardize Blaine's safety for his personal gain.

"I'll always have your back." He sits up straighter. "You know that, right?"

Blaine nods, his hand drifting down his chest. "I do," he whispers.

The air grows thicker and his breathing deepens as his eyes meet Blaine's–he's so close and he only has to reach out to negate the distance, one single decision and it's gone, his secrets suppressed for something so selfish it shouldn't be on his mind so often. But here they are, two boys without their disguises, closer than they've been in weeks and everything in him keeps screaming to never let Blaine go again.

He leans forward and captures Blaine's lips with his own, thoughtless, selfish, but Blaine reciprocates immediately, a hand clasped around his shoulders so he doesn't tumble back, lips parting in a gasp for more, to feel him deeper, to get more of him in the time they allow themselves. And he'll make it count, every careless second of it, because tomorrow they might remember why they fell apart last time and think the better of it. So he takes, heedless and untempered, a hand sliding around Blaine's waist, adding pressure to the small of his back, tongue easing past Blaine's lips. His heart pounds caution, but he's not thinking anymore.

Blaine pushes closer and throws a leg over his lap, knees settling on either side of his hips, hands grappling at his hair like he wants to dig underneath his scalp. He licks into Blaine's mouth and moans into the kiss, his skin heated beneath the scarce layers of clothing.

_This is wrong_, a small voice calls, nothing's changed and as long as he keeps secrets nothing ever will. He won't open up like Blaine wants him to, he could lose him all over again, but as Blaine levels his body with his, their chests pressed tight together, harsh breaths and moans laced with a longing that's been festering for far too long, that voice grows into a whisper, a tiny reminder of hurts long gone, long forgiven, even if they haven't been forgotten.

Blaine's fingers caress down his neck, a mindless pursuit that sets a fire burning through him, all of this so familiar, yet he wants to reacquaint himself with all his charming quirks, the gasp for breath right before Blaine grants him another kiss, the clench of his thighs around his hips, demanding fingertips undoing the buttons on his shirt. He reaches lower, hands inching inside Blaine's pants, fingers teasing at the cleft of his ass.

"Sebastian," Blaine whimpers, slowly allowing his hips to grind against him, and he wishes those words were enough, that it stood to reason that their compromising position meant everything was forgotten too, that they could start with a clean slate.

But the world had never proved that kind.

His cellphone rings, a soft vibrating in his pocket.

"Ignore it," Blaine mutters before kissing him again and he wants to, so bad, he would discard all his excess baggage if it meant having Blaine plain and simple, boyfriends at college with nothing more to worry about than school and work. So he ignores it, for another few seconds, his shirt undone and Blaine reaching down to make quick work of his pants.

But then Blaine's phone rings too.

"Fuck," Blaine breathes, but doesn't pull away, his fingers lingering at his belt buckle while he settles their foreheads together. Their phones ring, their hips still, and all his hope dissipates along with it–he'll never get it back, not his hectic yet easy life before the accident, not a life that isn't guided by revenge, not Blaine. There's no hope for them.

"Fuck," Blaine curses and pulls back, digging his phone out of his back pocket, quickly scanning the screen.

Blaine climbs off his lap and stands up in front of him. "I have to get this," he says, but doesn't wait for his answer to take the call.

He takes a deep breath and grabs for his own phone, the lightning fast change in pace a cold shower that draws him back to the here and now. And here and now Dottie seems to need his attention–he can already guess what this will pertain to. "Dot, what's up?" he asks as he answers the phone, tempted to slap himself in the face to snap out of this stupor.

"There's something going down in midtown."

"Yeah?" he asks absentmindedly, distracted by Blaine tapping his fingers on the kitchen countertop–whoever's calling it seems pretty urgent, judging by the way Blaine whispers into his phone, a hand wiring nervously through his hair.

"It's The Kingpin," Dottie says. "It has to be."

He sighs, "Okay", and gets up, waiting for Blaine to end his call too.

"I have to go," Blaine says, "Sam, uh–" His eyes catch on his chest, his shirt unbuttoned all the way so it hangs loose around his shoulders. He can still taste Blaine on his lips, feel where his fingers touched his skin and he wants to make these phone calls disappear, go right back to what they were doing, stop any pretense that there isn't anything between them anymore.

Blaine clears his throat. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Of course," his mouth spills, even though every other part of him screams the opposite, wants to keep Blaine close even if his own duties call. He can't stay, but he wants to.

He watches Blaine leave, again, something else always takes precedent over their relationship and he's as much part of the problem as Blaine is. He took on a responsibility towards the city he can't lay at someone else's feet, he can't expect Nightbird to step up and take over so he can be with Blaine, because Nightbird probably has his own public life he juggles to keep balanced with his night time outings. But none of that means he doesn't often wish the accident had never happened.

Then again, would he have learned from his mistakes if it hadn't?

He attempts to calm down before donning his red suit, but he can't get his nerves to settle, so by the time he reaches the scene of the crime he's about ready to tear the place down.

"They're well armed," Nightbird's voice sounds behind him, and for some reason it sends a cold shiver racing up his spine.

He grits his teeth, "I got this", intent on getting started, but Nightbird blocks his path.

"Don't be ridiculous. We're partners."

"Bullshit," he says, Nightbird barely discernible through the dark. They're not partners, they're not a team, he wouldn't even call Nightbird a friend–they both hide from the rest of the world and each other, and whether it's out of general distrust or a deeper issue so far neither of them has been inclined to reveal their true identity. He doubts either of them ever will. If he can't open up to his best friend, how could he ever show such an intimate part of himself to a complete stranger?

He balls his hands into fists. "Out of my way, Bird Boy," he says, and rushes past Nightbird, faster than anyone could see.

.

The first time he kissed Blaine was under a sky filled with fireworks. They were at an off-campus New Year's Eve party, Blaine had broken up with Eli a week before, but they went there together, on a date. Blaine's eyes had shone with all the colors of the rainbow before he was forced to squint against the light, but the light didn't matter once their eyes fell shut and their lips met.

He took Blaine home that night, they settled on the couch with some beers and talked until the sun rose, about school and work, about their favorite movies and how they should meet up for a movie night and watch some of them. Neither of them was tired, high on each other's company and the alcohol buzzing through their veins–Blaine fell asleep wrapped up in his arms, and a few hours later he woke up to a noseful of Blaine's curls.

They failed to take things slow, they spent night after night together in no time, tumbled circles in the sheets and cried out each other's name–every morning he met with the sight of Blaine wearing one of his jerseys, much too big for him, glasses crooked on his nose, smiling at him conspiratorially over a cup of hot coffee.

He visited Blaine at work and met Sam and Dottie, introduced Blaine to Mike and Tina in turn, and even when Blaine started getting busier with work and the first thin excuses came between them, he knew he was in love.

He'd never allowed himself to love so completely.

.

The next morning his cut has fully healed. He only applies a band-aid to prevent Blaine from catching on, and after what happened last night they have plenty to talk about already; Blaine finding out his secret is about the last thing he needs. A deeper wound has set in around the memory of it, the sharp cut of the past repeating, a script he and Blaine will read through on repeat.

Blaine will have his hands full with the newspaper most of the day and he has to head into work afterwards, so he'll go see Blaine later with coffee as a peace offering, after his own morning classes and his regular hours at the crime lab. He can't focus on anything though, not the professor's voice, not the slides reflected into the wall by the projector, his notes neglected while his stomach turns. Last night should never have happened, he's smarter than this; there's a reason they didn't work out two years ago and an even more compelling reason for why he keeps Blaine at arm's length now.

As much as he'd like to avoid this they do need to talk, they have to figure out where they are and what they want, and where to go from here–but whatever hope had been kept alive by Blaine's presence was slowly wilting into the disheartening realization that they've been at this crossroads before. Last time Blaine wanted him to open up, talk about his past in a way he couldn't even talk to his mother, and their breakup had mostly been his fault.

This time around there needed to be concessions made on both sides and that's unlikely to happen. He can't talk about his father's death or how he carries that loss with him every day, even more so when he's out as The Flash, fuelled by an almost crippling sense of injustice night after night. But he can't explain that to Blaine. And he can't imagine Blaine suddenly changing his habits or cutting back on work hours because of one kiss that happened in the heat of the moment.

No, they're stuck exactly where they fell apart. Nothing's changed. Nothing ever will.

The guard at the lab where Blaine works has seen him often enough to let him through the security gate after one cursory glance, but he'd bought the man a donut for his troubles. He takes the elevator up to the fifth floor and exits, his heart beating at a rhythm he's not used to, his palms sweaty.

He enters the lab and locates Blaine behind three large computer monitors, fingers working diligently over the keyboard, while machines he won't even try to name buzz all around them. Chaos rules Blaine's workspace, papers and schematics strewn all over the desk, along with pencils and tablets and other electronic measuring instruments–at least Blaine's neat enough to throw out empty coffee cups and food wrappers.

"Hey," he calls, and it takes several seconds for his voice to carry across the crisp white room, long enough for him to reconsider being here. This isn't a conversation he wants to have, he'd rather postpone it until the weight of what they did threatens to cut them in half and leave them lesser men. Right now he still has the fantasy, hope not yet fully slipped through his fingers, but once they talk he'll be left empty-handed and heartbroken.

Blaine swivels his chair around. "Hey."

He walks over and deposits the two coffees on Blaine's desk.

Blaine reaches up for his forehead, carefully touching around the cut that's no longer there. "How's your head?"

"Nothing a few aspirin couldn't fix."

He digs his hands into his pockets and leans back against the desk, any clever remarks stuck dead at the back of his throat. What can he say that won't hurt them both, even if that's the scenario that'll play out. There's no easy or decent way to do this, so maybe he should just come out and say it.

"This doesn't need to be awkward," he says, the lump in his throat almost cutting off his oxygen. "We've been here before. And it's still a bad idea."

A beat of silence follows.

Then another.

And another.

And he can't read Blaine's expression, _confusion?_, _heartbreak?_, or was this brand new information?

"Why?" Blaine asks.

"Why?" he echoes, as if the answer's obvious, as if a single kiss had erased the past and blurred the future and all that truly mattered is right here and now. But he can't afford to think like that. His father's death had been the catalyst for a darkness people would never think him capable of, a burning need for vengeance the hood and suit hid skillfully, but would only scare Blaine away. Blaine's pure and innocent and he won't drag him into that downward spiral that almost got him killed. He can't make Blaine promises he can't keep, can't string Blaine along when it could all end the next day, or the day after, or the day after that.

He's selfless enough to keep Blaine as far away from that part of his life as he possibly can.

"Blaine–"

"We spend all this time together as friends." Blaine stands up, gently placing a hand on his thigh. "Why can't it be more?"

Blaine's question short circuits his thought process long enough for him to start stammering. "Because, I can't–" He can't believe Blaine's the one saying this after what they went through last time, he remembers the pained tears in his hazel eyes all too well, it haunts him every day, and it kills him that he can't open up like any normal person. He keeps secrets from his past and present and no potential plot twist could secure his honesty with Blaine in the future–not as long as he's The Flash, not as long as he protects Nightbird too. There are too many variables, and not enough certainties.

"You deserve better, Blaine," he says, his heart breaking at the same wounded look in Blaine's eyes. "You deserve someone who can open up and share everything with you."

Blaine's hand slips off his leg.

"I'm not that person." He shakes his head. "I haven't been for a long time."

Blaine's eyes shine with tears. "What happened to you that night?"

And yes, _yes_, of all the turning points in their relationship the biggest one traces back to his accident, when a lightning strike put everything in perspective, his heedless pursuit for the truth about his father's death, his helplessness, and Blaine, the boy he let slip through his fingers. He'd never been more ready to tell Blaine about his past, what it was like to lose his father at such a young age, what his own investigation had yielded. He wanted Blaine back, because what could've been more important than sharing his life with someone without his fears and secrets standing in their way?

But then his powers manifested.

"You loved me." Blaine takes a step closer. "You still love me."

He averts his eyes to avoid screaming yes, but Blaine knows, of course he knows. Blaine reads him better than anyone. But a defiant streak reminds him he's not the only one who landed them here. The disconnect between them started long before his accident, when Blaine distanced himself and came up with one lousy excuse after the other, took on more work, secret projects and outings with Sam. He tried his best to ignore his growing bitterness towards Blaine's behavior, he lived his life at a much after pace after all, but he won't stand accused like this. He may be fast, but he always slowed down for Blaine.

"Don't put this all on me," he says, and right on cue Blaine's phone starts vibrating on the desk. _Sam_. "I rest my case."

Blaine takes a disconcerted step back. "I have to go."

"Would the world end if you didn't?" he asks, even though he's memorized these lines.

"I'm sorry," Blaine whispers, all true pretenses gone.

He sighs. Nothing will ever change.

Blaine kisses his cheek, and he closes his eyes, trying to stave off the promise of hope.

When he opens his eyes Blaine's gone, and he's alone. Again.

Blaine's kiss lingers on his skin and digs underneath it, same with the one they shared yesterday, engraved deep beneath layers of tissue and etched into the bone. They do this to themselves, cause each other so much pain because they're so desperately clinging to what they had years ago, without taking into account how much they've changed. Blaine's not the same boy he fell in love with, he can't count on Blaine to be there for him and he's excused it too many times, because he's been on the other side of it, disappointing people, breaking promises even though he never means to; Blaine's turned inward, keeps secrets from him, something he never would've dreamed of doing before.

He keeps even bigger secrets now, ones he plays close to the chest because this one could truly mean the difference between life and death. Maybe somewhere along the way he and Blaine had ceased to be compatible.

His phone rings too–it's funny how his phone and Blaine's keep doing that so close together–but he lets it go to voicemail; it'll be Dottie informing him of the latest emergency and he's not sure he's up to talking to anyone. He'll perform his duty, he'll be the knight in red armor, but only because he has to. If not him, then who?

He makes it home within seconds, and while he changes the police scanner informs him that Nightbird's on the scene saving the day. So he's not needed after all.

His phone rings again, Dottie trying to reach him a second time. This time he turns his phone off. He doesn't need this right now, there's a storm coming and he's already on edge, his heart beating raw and heavy in his chest, a telltale sign that he should work off some of his frustration, strain his muscles, catch some bad guys. That should do the trick.

His search doesn't take long; he's out for a few minutes when he happens upon a half dozen guys harassing three girls who are clearly on their way to a club–their sequin dresses catch the reflection from the low hanging lights over a small loading dock, presumably providing access to some sort of basement.

"Boys, please."

Three faces turns towards him in shock.

"It's The Flash!" one of the women gasps.

He flashes a smile. "Why don't you let these ladies go to their party and try to catch me instead?"

"Pretentious little prick!" one of the guys lashes out with a baseball bat, but he dodges out of the way.

"_Language_," he tuts.

The entire gang turns around to face him, the three girls slipping away in the confusion. "Let's take this song bird down a notch," a guy to his right says, and unearths a switchblade along with the two guys flanking him. _Now_ it's getting interesting.

"You know, you're right," –he backs up a few steps, thunder sounding in the distance– "This is hardly a fair fight. Why don't I wait for you to call in some back-up, and we'll continue this later."

Silence falls.

"Is this guy for real?" a guy to his left asks.

He rolls his eyes. "Criminals," he sighs. "They don't make 'em like they used to." He puts up his fists in jest. "Who's first?"

There's another few seconds of confusion before all six men charge him at once, but he blurs between two of them, fading back in behind their backs. He thought that after all these years criminals would get dissuaded at the mere sight of him, but he hardly ever gets that lucky. Tonight, however, he's glad for the distraction.

The gang charges again, scattering in a circle around him now, and he could've easily avoided getting hit by the baseball bat, if he didn't get momentarily distracted by the flapping of wings overhead.

He takes a hit to his ribs, another to one of his legs that sends him crashing to the ground, and the only reason he doesn't get stabbed is because Nightbird lands next to him and takes out two of the gang, extending a hand to help him up.

He stands up on his own momentum, his back to Nightbird's, and they make quick work of the other gangsters. Once the last man standing passes out on the ground too he turns to Nightbird, who seems to have no inkling that he could've gotten him killed if one of these assholes had chosen to stab him first instead of hitting him–he can't dodge bullets or sidestep knives if he can't see or hear them coming.

He shoves Nightbird up against the wall, a hand secure on his chest to keep him in place. "I had that under control."

"What is your problem?" Nightbird asks, struggling to break free, and he catches another whiff of raspberry-scented _something_ –_hair gel maybe?_– but he doesn't want to spend another second thinking about it. It starts raining and he can't see a goddamn thing, but his skin vibrates with barely suppressed rage and he reels at the thought that Nightbird can't even tell what's going on. What's the point in teaming up if Nightbird's going to put him in more danger?

He growls, pulling Nightbird closer before shoving him back hard. "I didn't _ask_ for your help."

"And you got it anyway," Nightbird grunts, having trouble breathing because of all the pressure he's adding to his lungs. "We're working together now, Road Runner, you better get used to this."

It's the nickname that does it, those two stupid words spoken reciprocally after all the ones he's tossed around these past few months, but the second it rolls off Nightbird's tongue something inside him snaps, as if the weight of the world had been resting on his shoulders and his back's finally cracked.

He punches out the light right next to Nightbird's head; the glass breaks at the sudden impact and the wires spark bright–Nightbird cries out louder than he would've expected and cringes away from the additional sparks that rain down; night vision goggles are sensitive to light, but this is extreme. Nightbird sinks down to the ground, curling into a ball, hands covering his eyes.

For a second or two he wonders if he should even leave Nightbird like this, but in his hesitation he fully realizes why he's tempted to help: Blaine's overly sensitive to bright lights too, and he'd never leave him behind helpless. But Nightbird isn't Blaine, so he won't make him his problem.

He pulls the communication device Nightbird got him from his ear and tosses it at his feet.

"From now on you stay out of my way, Bird Boy."

And that's that, he cuts any connection between him and Nightbird with a few choice actions and walks away; he doesn't need a partner. He doesn't need anyone.

He runs to the end of the alley and glances back over his shoulder. Nightbird's already gone.

For the next half hour he patrols the city, running so fast he leaves burn marks in the concrete and scares the hell out of more than a few innocent bystanders–he needs this though, the ache in his muscles, the acidic burn in his lungs, the affirmation that everything he's gained had its purpose and wasn't caused by some freak accident that could've hit any idiot.

Of course that's exactly what it was, a freak accident, it could've happened to any person working late that night–but it _had been him_ and it gave him a cause, a reason to take to the streets night after night and make sure what happened to him would never happen to another twelve-year-old waiting for his dad to come home. Not on his watch. Not as long as there's blood pumping through his veins.

He never doubted what he did as The Flash, not once, until tonight. He shouldn't have assaulted Nightbird, shouldn't have tried to blind him, because that hadn't been his intention, all he wanted ... he's not sure what he wanted, he was angry at himself and at Blaine to some extent, and he'd taken that out on the wrong person. Nightbird hadn't deserved his anger.

And maybe he hadn't been fair to Blaine either, he wasn't Blaine's keeper. They were just friends and what Blaine did with his time, whether he liked it or not, it wasn't his place to judge.

That same thought nags at him on his way home, while he's in the shower, and especially while he lets Dottie shout abuse at him over the phone for a good ten minutes. He can't leave things the way they are, he can't let his life fall to shambles all around him just because he can't always control everything. He makes quick work of his PJs and changes back into regular clothes; he has to go see Blaine and apologize before it's too late and a chance at friendship gets swept off the table. If that's the best he can hope for he'll take it. Because going about his life without Blaine in it sounds utterly unbearable.

Blaine's car is parked outside his building so he's definitely home. He ascends the four flights of stairs up to the third floor fast but at a much slower pace than the one he maintained tonight, preparing exactly what he'll say to Blaine; he'll apologize for being a jerk and making him feel guilty over leaving, he'll apologize a thousand times if he has to, whatever it takes to keep Blaine close. Friendship shouldn't really be this hard, it shouldn't be a constant struggle to keep it alive, but he hasn't quite mastered life without Blaine yet. So he'll beg on his knees if he has to.

He knocks on Blaine's door and waits patiently, but when the door finally opens he's not met with the face he expected to see. "Sam," he says, and hopes fiercely his disappointment doesn't show on his face. He likes Sam, and he's not proud of whatever jealousy that rears its ugly head every time he imagines Sam and Blaine together, but he hasn't found a way around it yet. What's Sam doing here at this hour? If Blaine hadn't kissed him last night or hadn't questioned him this afternoon, he'd think Blaine was secretly dating Sam. Even if that was true, Blaine has to know that's not something he has to hide from him. It would hurt, yes, but if it's what Blaine wants than who's he to object?

"Is Blaine here?"

"He's having a migraine," Sam answers. "He can't talk to you right now."

"Yeah, okay." He nods. Blaine's migraines can take him out for days at a time while he secludes himself to a dark and quiet room, even though it's not in his nature to sit still. Luckily they don't happen often. He hopes their conversation earlier today hadn't triggered it.

"Tell him I dropped by?"

Sam nods, sympathetically adding, "I'm really sorry, man", so he assumes Blaine told Sam what happened between them.

The door closes and he's left alone in the hallway, everything unresolved.

But he'll talk to Blaine.

He'll make things right.

.

He and Blaine only lasted a few months, a crazy, passionate few months during which he was the happiest he'd ever been, but if there was one quality Blaine needed him to have, it was the ability to open up about his past. But all his past represented lay heavy around his heart like scar tissue and he'd never told anyone about losing his father, about why he was pursuing a degree in criminology, his reasons were his own and no matter how hard Blaine tried he never got him to open up.

It broke Blaine's heart, but he reasoned Blaine could never understand, that trauma like that and his obsession with catching the perpetrators was incompatible with the pure and simple love he felt for Blaine–he didn't want his darkness to taint the light Blaine had started to reflect onto him.

When Blaine started pulling back too, that was the beginning of the end of them as a couple.

They took some time to themselves, but to this day he considers himself lucky that they both still wanted each other's friendship. So they contented themselves with that friendship, tried to be there for each other, hang out, support one another, even when he made that difficult with his constantly being late.

He never stopped loving Blaine, and he often suspected nothing much changed for Blaine either, but somewhere along the way Blaine found his own obsession, special projects at Stark Industries, strange hours and hurried phone calls from Sam.

It seemed that whenever one of them caught up the other started in the fast lane again and it was a struggle to balance it all out.

And then the accident happened.

.

Making things right proves to be a lot harder than he anticipated. Blaine's out for days due to his migraine, hauled up in his bedroom and it's futile to talk to him when he's in so much pain–Sam never seems to leave Blaine's side either, and he'd rather not have an audience when he and Blaine do end up talking.

To make things worse, Nightbird vanishes as well. He goes out every night in the hopes of finding the winged vigilante, but he never stumbles upon him. The police reports don't mention him either, so he doubts Nightbird's avoiding him, but his sudden disappearance makes the alternative all the more frightening. Had he hurt Nightbird that bad? He hadn't meant to, he'd let his emotions get the best of him; last time he did that he'd almost got killed, now he'd hurt his partner.

How was he going to fix any of this? How can he and Blaine ever go back to being friends without the lingering questions of whether they could or should be more? Whether they'd always want more? And how would Nightbird ever trust him again?

His entire life was coming apart at the seams because of one careless kiss.

Or maybe it was simply his heart being careless.

What kind of man would he be, though, if he didn't let his heart guide him from time to time?

.

"Don't expect any sympathy from me," Dottie says, slurping from her milkshake, her eyes big and caring but equally judgmental–she's upset with him and she has every right to be, he's screwed up the two best things in his life and Dottie's a close enough friend to know exactly what he can be blamed for.

It's been almost five days now and he hasn't heard from Blaine or Nightbird. He visits the watertower every night and hopes there'll be some message from Nightbird, but to no avail, there's nothing but radio silence between them, and it's making him highly uncomfortable thinking he chased Nightbird away. According to Mike Blaine's back at work too, but he won't take any of his calls, and he dreads what that could mean.

So he'd turned to his last pillar of support, Dottie, because it turned out he needed someone to talk to after all.

He eyes his sidekick suspiciously. "On which part in particular?"

The pink straw slips from Dottie's lips, and she blinks up at him apologetically. "I'm really sorry about you and Blaine. You make a cute couple." She shrugs her small fragile shoulders and shrinks into her seat, sitting across from him in the corner booth of the restaurant.

"But I'm an asshole for what I did to Nightb–" –a waitress passes their table and he falls silent.

"Are you sure it was just the light thing?" Dottie asks, her voice small like she's afraid it might set him off again. "I mean, night vision is extremely sensitive to light, but..." and he's sure Dottie offers a perfectly sound explanation for why Nightbird's reaction had been extreme, but his eyes catch on the boy entering the restaurant, the bell above the door chiming softly. _Blaine_.

Blaine looks a picture of health, though he suspects his tinted glasses hide the dark circles under his eyes. He gets up without thinking, leaving Dottie to talk to herself, his feet moving him towards where Blaine stands waiting for his take-out order.

And of all the things he could've opened with, _How are you feeling?_, _How have you been?_, he ends up asking the dumbest thing: "Are you dating Sam?"

Blaine turns his head. "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry." He stares down at his feet, his tongue twisting in an elaborate knot, but when it comes to Blaine he's often tongue-tied. "I just–" He shrugs. "I miss you."

There it is, for a guy so hopelessly ineloquent and unable to open up to people that's one of his core truths–Blaine's part of him, and he'd do anything to keep him in his life.

Blaine takes a deep breath, which doesn't bode well. "Sam's straight," he says matter-of-factly. "We've been working on a lot of projects together. I need the money."

"No, I get that."

"And–"

The strain in Blaine's voice becomes apparent, the distance between them more solid than it's ever been, and he's absolutely certain he doesn't want to hear this.

"I'm not sure we can be friends anymore."

He looks up, Blaine's words a punch to the gut that almost makes his knees give out. Maybe he should've seen this coming, maybe all the signs had been there, Blaine's silence and the finality of their last conversation. A final kiss goodbye.

"I thought things could be different between us," Blaine says. "I thought if I tried hard enough maybe you'd let me in. Because then maybe I could let you in. But there's–"

Too many lies. Too many excuses. Too many secrets. They've always forgiven each other, because in some crazy way they understood each other's hardships, and it's not hard to forgive a friend, especially one you love beyond belief. But forgiveness stacks up over time, and once you take a step back to take score it all adds up to an insurmountable heap of things they said the wrong way, avoided saying, or never voiced at all.

"I love you, Sebastian," Blaine says, which turns out to be the hardest thing to hear. "But it can't be like this anymore."

Neither of them has forgotten. And they've used up all their get-out-of-jail-free cards. Maybe it's time they admit that.

"You're right."

Blaine bites his lip. "What?"

"You're right." He swallows hard, defeat anchoring him in place. "I can't let you in."

He's not the only one to blame this time, he was there for Blaine whenever he needed him, he made up for everything he missed, but it wasn't enough, they didn't want half-truths or blatant lies, yet fell victim to them every single time. Something keeps them apart, more than just his secrets, but he can't imagine what Blaine could be hiding.

"Maybe it's better this way," Blaine says softly, voice thick with sorrow.

He nods, his heart silent, because it now wants things he's about to deprive it.

"Goodbye, Sebastian." Blaine grabs his food and turns around, hurrying out of the restaurant as fast as he can, no look back, no second glance, not another second spared.

He tries to breathe, but air never quite reaches his lungs.

He's alone. Truly alone. For the first time in years.

.

Thinking back to the accident still sets his hairs on end.

He'd been working late at the lab, running some additional tests on blood recovered from the scene of a murder, and he'd stood replacing all kinds of dangerous chemicals in a glass cabinet stacked against the wall. A terrible storm raged outside, lightning illuminating the darkened room every few seconds. Blaine had texted him several times to come home before the worst of the storm hit, but it was woefully too late for that.

First, the glass had rattled, the bottles inside the case shaking in their spots, but he chucked that up to the age of the building. It wouldn't be the first time faulty wiring got affected by bad weather. Then, lightning had hit right outside the window and he swears he could feel the heat of it cutting through the double glass. He'd taken a few steps closer, carrying two canisters of liquid chemicals–all the lights went out, including the street lights; the storm had probably hit the electrical grid.

Static electricity traced over his skin and up the back of his neck.

Glass shattered.

Everything went dark.

He was in a coma for two weeks.

He woke up in the hospital, a monitor to his left tapping out his heartbeat, his mouth dry and every muscle in his body sore. He knew what had happened, but he had absolutely no idea how he'd survived. Struggling to open his eyes he could tell there was someone in the room with him, a hand curling around his fingers.

"Mrs Smythe!" Blaine called, but no footsteps followed; maybe his mom was out of earshot.

"It's you," he muttered senselessly, because of course Blaine would be there, they were friends.

"It's me." Blaine smiled through his tears and brushed a hand through his hair, his fingers cool to the touch. "I thought I'd lost you," Blaine sniffled, before pushing a soft kiss to a corner of his mouth.

It was that kiss that got him through his rehab, that made him rethink the way he'd been living his life and how close he'd come to losing it without ever having told Blaine what he really felt. Blaine knew, he was sure of it, but their past had taught them love wasn't enough.

He'd been ready to tell Blaine everything.

.

It's surprisingly easy to fall back into a routine, albeit a different one. He attends classes and heads into work, does his home work; he hangs out with Dottie and on occasion Mike and Tina, but that proves too awkward for now with Blaine and Sam out of the equation. There's a sense of futility to all of it though, like everything he does has lost purpose because the person he'd chosen to live by had gone missing, a void where Blaine once was he now had to fill with something new.

The nights he usually spent with Blaine he visits his mom and his stepdad, and his mom's happy to have him around, even though she realizes as much as anyone that he's there to heal from a wound he never thought would bleed so much. It feels like going through their break-up all over again, and maybe that's exactly what it should feel like. You don't give up on a years-long friendship without it hurting. This time around they're cutting each other out of their lives, and save for the world turning upside down he suspects it's permanent this time. Blaine's gone, and he has to accept that.

"There'll be other boys, sweetheart," his mom says on his way out, kissing his cheek.

"I'm sure there will be." He smiles weakly, tired and worn from all the hours trying to forget about the whole ordeal, and he doesn't truly believe it either; there might be other boys, but none so understanding as Blaine–and if he and Blaine couldn't make it work, then who could ever replace him?

"Sometimes I think you have the weight of the world resting on your shoulders." His mom shakes her head. "You don't have to be strong all the time. You know that, don't you? It's okay to let people take care of you."

"I know." He nods, though arguably he does carry the weight of keeping Central City safe. "That's what superheroes are for, right?" he jokes, and suddenly he can't figure out why he keeps so many secrets; his mom might freak out and worry, but she wouldn't love him any less; Blaine loves superheroes, and he might end up helping him out like Dottie; and who would understand better than Nightbird?

"Superheroes are people too, honey," his mother's voice snaps him to.

No, he can't tell her. He forgets his secrets keep the people he loves safe.

"I love you, mom."

"Love you too, baby."

He leaves the house happier than he had been at the start of the evening; his mom had this way of either making his problems insignificant or shedding a light on them because he was too close to see straight. Tonight she'd pointed out one aspect of his life that had fallen in disarray at his own hand, but he desperately had to fix.

He had to find some way to patch things up with Nightbird, who'd returned to his crime-fighting ways after a few days' absence. If anyone understood the burden he carried, how it affected every aspect of his life and his personal relationships, it was the Nocturnal Avenger. That was the relationship he truly needed to mend. Because it made balancing Sebastian Smythe out with The Flash just that little bit easier.

So like every other night this past week he dresses in his suit and hits the streets the moment the sun sets. He searches for Nightbird at every crime scene he finds, but it doesn't matter how fast he runs; all he ever catches is a glimpse of his cape as Nightbird disappears into the night, the swoosh of his wings and try as he might, Nightbird goes places he can't follow.

He's all but given up on his mission when gunfire cuts through the cover of night. The source of the shooting takes him to the docks, where four gangsters were caught in the process of unloading wooden crates from a big truck; one of the crates lay broken on the ground, revealing disassembled semi-automatic weapons.

The four gangsters stand firing at another stack of crates–he presses the thermal imaging feature on the glasses he hadn't been able to part with, which reveals a figure hunkered down behind the crates, effectively pinned down by the gunfire. It can't be anyone but Nightbird. He's well aware Nightbird might have some tricks up his sleeve to get out of this tricky situation, but what better way to regain his trust than lending a helping hand?

He creeps up behind the gangsters unnoticed and taps one of them on the shoulder, taking him out with a punch to the gut and one to the face. The other three catch on slowly, but they stop firing, enabling Nightbird to emerge from behind the crates.

"Just like old times, huh, partner?"

Nightbird doesn't speak, but they move as one, exactly how they'd learned in the previous months. It's not long before all four gangsters lie face down on the concrete.

"I didn't ask for your help," Nightbird says.

He chuckles at the clear echo from their recent past. "Consider it the first of many apologies."

Nightbird remains silent.

"I was angry," he says. "I'm sorry I took it out on you."

"It's going to take a lot more than that."

"Fair enough," he says, unconsciously drawn closer to this curious figure continually shrouded in the darkness he willingly seeks out–and now more than ever he wonders what kind of person hides behind the mask, which loved ones he leaves sleeping alone at night, what drives him to do this.

Nightbird breaks into a sprint and releases his wings, taking to the skies once more, but he's happy with what he got. Tonight was a step in the right direction.

.

Two days later, all hell breaks lose.

He wasted an overlarge portion of his afternoon trudging through a filthy apartment where every room seemed to be a crime scene as well as a biological hazard, and by the time he reaches the lab he has several hours of cultures, vials and tox screens to look forward to.

He almost misses it in his haste to get to work, but a slew of his colleagues have crowded around the antiquated television set in the break room, and that's too curious an occurrence not to check out.

"What's going on?" he asks, slipping out his jacket.

But no one has to answer for him to read the headline that flashes across the television screen: **NIGHTBIRD WANTED FOR MURDER**. His stomach turns and he has flashbacks to eight months ago, when Fisk set him up for robbery. The public outcry had been horrific, to see people who believed in him lose their faith, change their opinion about him overnight and to this day it sat uneasy with him how fragile his reputation truly was. And now these murder charges. Fisk had gone too far. There's no way anyone would believe this.

"He was caught in the act," his lab partner, Quinn, informs him, and as he looks down to meet her eye he can tell the seed of doubt has already been planted. Now it will fester, and spread, until the entire city turned against Nightbird, someone who'd helped save his reputation months ago. "There's footage."

He frowns and returns his attention to the screen, where he watches Nightbird emerge through a rooftop door, his wings opening at the push of a button before he dives off the building. The camera loses him after that, but there's no doubt about it; the figure on the footage was definitely Nightbird.

The rest of the news segment outlines more of the facts, and the more he finds out the worse it gets–the man Nightbird supposedly killed was a judge presiding over an important murder trial, the outcome of which would've decided the fate of a special gang task force within the police department. Last he heard the judge was under lock and key, travelling with a security detail everywhere he went and virtually untouchable, including by the Kingpin's enforcers who weren't above murder to make a trial go their way.

That's where it got even worse: three cops had been killed too. No wonder everyone was still at work this late. But Nightbird had absolutely nothing to do with this, he's not a killer, he'd most likely been in the wrong place at the wrong time and gotten mixed up in something he wasn't prepared for.

"Mayor's already preparing a speech," Quinn says. "_These masked menaces are no better than common criminals_, and all that." She mimics jazz hands. "Your dad's going to be there. He has the entire force looking for Nightbird."

Nausea stirs at the pit of his stomach; if he hadn't messed things up between him and Nightbird he might've been there with him, this could've been avoided. Maybe if he told Nightbird his true identity he'd come find him now, instead of feeling the need to run.

"He didn't do this," he says.

"Probably not." Quinn shrugs. "But the Mayor's out for blood."

At the sound of Quinn's words he becomes less worried about what would happen should the cops capture Nightbird, but a whole lot more scared about what Nightbird will do once he's caught between The Kingpin and the entire Central City Police Department. He's been there, the inability to touch The Kingpin through any official channels but knowing what he had done to his father had led him to make a mistake, run into a situation without thinking, and he almost ended up paying a heavy price.

"Where are you going?" Quinn asks when she notices him shrugging his jacket back on.

"I, uh–" He blinks, driven only by the need to ensure Nightbird's safety. "I left something in the car."

He makes his way out into the parking lot and gets into a department SUV, his credentials tucked away safely in his back pocket. His phone rings before he manages to grab it and he foolishly hopes this is one instance of Dottie reading his mind. Unfortunately he's not that lucky: Sam's calling, and he can't think of a single reason why.

He starts the car and activates the Bluetooth headset in his ear. "Sam, I don't really have time to talk right now."

He has no time to lose, who knows where Nightbird is or what he's thinking, or how close the cops are–Nightbird once protected him from his reputation going down the drain, they're in this together, and he's going to help out any way he can.

"I know you're at work," Sam says, "but have you heard from Blaine?"

He snickers, a dull ache spreading in his chest at the mention of Blaine, but he has bigger concerns. Blaine's probably at work, trapped inside the intricate wiring of one of his supercomputers and lost track of time. "Blaine and I haven't really been on speaking terms, Sam. I haven't heard from him in more than two weeks."

"But you'll call me if you hear from him, won't you?"

The tangible worry in Sam's voice has him curious. What could warrant Sam's concern? The worst trouble Blaine's ever gotten himself into was a speeding ticket. "Yeah, I will," he answers, but highly doubts he'll be Blaine's first call, no matter how badly he wants to be.

He ends the call and dials Dottie's number, who takes a painstakingly long time to answer the phone.

"Please, tell me you're near a computer."

Dottie squeaks, "I'm having dinner with my parents."

He sighs. He knew that, Dottie has dinner with her parents every Monday and Wednesday night, and neither of them are as technically adept as Dottie. They don't even own a computer. Luckily Dottie travels few places without her laptop near. "Dot, I need you in Chai Ti mode right now," he says, fingers wringing around the wheel as he steers the car through traffic. "I need to know Fisk's exact location, and any and all Nightbird sightings."

"What happened?"

"Turn on the news," he says, pulling up to the scene of the crime. "I have to go, I'm headed into a crime scene. Text me."

He disconnects the call and hurries out of the car. He forgets his field kit but he won't stay long, he just needs to figure out what happened and maybe convince a few of his fellow CSIs to search for another possible perpetrator. Showing one of the officers on duty his credentials he ducks under the police tape and follows a trail of CSIs up two flights of steps, where the first body has been covered by a sheet of plastic. He's in luck today, Santana's processing the scene, and they've worked well together in the past.

"Smythe, you're not supposed to be here."

He raises his hands in surrender. "I'm looking for my dad," he lies, giving the scene a furtive glance. There's blood splatter on the wall, presumably from a gunshot wound. "Guards were shot?"

"Judge too." Santana nods. "Two to the chest, one to the head. Execution style."

_The Kingpin's style_, he thinks, Nightbird's more likely to use a stun grenade before resorting to a gun; he's seen more than one of Nightbird's fancy gadgetry take out a group of bad guys without spilling a drop of blood.

"Not what you'd expect from a superhero," Santana adds, catching his attention. He's glad he doesn't have to spell this out to her; Nightbird is innocent unless they find real proof. And there won't be any.

"Sebastian!" Charles' voice sounds from down below, followed by his footsteps on the stairs. "What are you doing here? You're not working this case."

Winking at Santana he meets his stepdad halfway; he hadn't counted on running into him, he should be coordinating everything at the precinct, but he can talk his way out of this. Charles prefers to keep their discussions on superheroes contained and out of earshot, but that's exactly the topic that might get him out of his mess. "Nightbird didn't do this."

"He was caught on tape."

"He's not a killer."

An entirely different kind of doubt dawns in his stepfather's eyes. Everyone knows it, but they're not saying it; they all believe in Nightbird, he's an invaluable part of the fight against crime, and they know he wouldn't kill, he'd never help The Kingpin. But the police's hands are tied, people need to feel like they're safe, and even if Nightbird turns out to be innocent they need to pursue this lead. Which makes him finding Nightbird first all the more important.

"I need to bring him in, Sebastian," Charles says. "It's out of my hands."

He nods solemnly and accepts there's little else he can do as Sebastian Smythe today. It's time for The Flash to help out a friend in need. He leaves the crime scene without sparing his stepfather another word; he's doing his job and he's under a lot of scrutiny, but whatever animosity remains between them he'll fix later–Charles knows as well as anyone this was The Kingpin's handiwork and he's all too aware how much anger he still carries around. They'll talk later. They always do. Sometimes he hates to admit it, but Charles has become a second father to him, despite their occasional differences.

By the time he deposits the SUV back at the station dusk starts to set in, while he hears the propellers of helicopters rattling through the air somewhere not too far off. Quinn wasn't kidding, every available resource was being rerouted to aid in a citywide manhunt. And he was about to join it.

He races home and puts on the suit, just in time for Dottie's phone call. "What do you have for me?"

"The police spotted Nightbird in an alley off 3rd and Jefferson, but Sebastian–"

Dottie falls silent.

"What is it?"

"He's lost his wings."

His heart skips a beat. "_How?_"

"I don't know how those things work!" Dottie answers hurriedly. "But I think he might've been injured."

He draws in a deep breath. After tonight he really needs to talk to Dottie about which information to prioritize. His jaw clenches, muscles tightening precariously at the thought of Nightbird out there on his own, possibly defenseless, hunted like an animal. He needed to find him and take him somewhere safe, maybe even leave the city so they could lay low for a while, at least until this whole thing blew over.

"And Fisk?"

"As far as I can tell he's at home."

"Okay, thanks."

"Sebastian," Dottie lisps his name, the sound in her voice all too familiar. "Please, be careful."

"I will, Chai Ti," he says, and he truly means it. He's learned from his mistakes; if not all, then definitely his biggest ones.

Helicopters circle the entirety of the city when he reaches the alley no ten seconds later. There's no sign of Nightbird, no sign of a struggle, only the impenetrable black and the dreadful thought that there's only one way this can possibly end, one path for Nightbird to take–and that's to confront The Kingpin. There's no doubt in his mind that Nightbird knows the crime lord's true identity.

Wilson Fisk lives on the outskirts of Central City, past the symmetricality of suburbia, in a mansion heavily fortified by the latest technology in home security; cameras, motion detectors, and a veritable army of guards. He'd somehow made it past all those last time, yet had overestimated his own chances, blinded the moment he laid eyes on Fisk. It had been the only time in his life he'd thought himself capable of murder. In a way he got lucky that he never got the chance to test that conviction. He's not about to let Nightbird make that same mistake.

He approaches the mansion at a calculated pace–the front gate has been opened, but none of the alarms were tripped. A silent alarm would warn the police, and those are the last people Fisk would want poking around, so either the alarms were disabled or they weren't triggered, both scenarios equally curious–Nightbird can't be that severely injured.

Pushing through the gate the complex remains remarkably silent, and he proceeds with caution. The windows show no signs of life or lights turned on, and the red led lights on the security cameras aren't blinking either. Maybe Nightbird had turned off the power.

He finds the first security guard unconscious just inside the front door of the house, his walkie broadcasting nothing but static. Something isn't right here; all the guards were taken out, security was down, but where the hell was Nightbird? He listens around for any other noises, focusing his hearing through all the rooms in the house.

A gunshot nearly shatters his eardrums.

It comes from the first floor of the house, _Fisk's office_, and he's up there in a flash, staring at the scene horrified. Nightbird's unconscious on the floor, almost in the exact same spot he'd gone down years ago, Fisk in a corner of the darkened room. _He's too late_.

"My my, two for the price of one tonight, is it?" Fisk asks, aiming his 9mm straight at him, and it all comes back, the pain and despair he felt lying defeated at the feet of a man he hated so thoroughly, it burns through him, his blinding rage made him see red, made him discount everything and anyone in his life as long as he got his revenge, take down the man who'd taken his father from him, his own fate be damned.

He moves between Nightbird's body and the gun, shielding his fallen friend from any more harm, conscious of every detail in his surroundings. He's not a killer, he won't stoop to that level, but maybe it's time he faced his fears.

But Nightbird groans.

_He's still alive_, the thought strikes like lightning, and now he's suddenly responsible for two lives. He knows what he has to do.

"Not this time, Fisk," he sneers. He reaches down for Nightbird, pulling one of his arms around his neck and they're out of the house before Fisk has time to blink.

He keeps running while he tries to figure out what to do with Nightbird; if he's really injured he should stop to check his wounds, and the entire police force is out looking for him, but when Nightbird starts to struggle there's only one place he can think of. The water tower.

"Get off me!" Nightbird shoves him a few feet further, feeling his hands down his chest.

"You got shot, I thought–"

Nightbird straightens his shoulders and plucks a bullet from his blue chest plate, which shows more than one dent. How many times had he gotten shot at today?

"You're okay."

Nightbird turns his back on him. "Save for a few bruised ribs."

The dismissive tone in Nightbird's voice makes him pause. "I told you not to go after The Kingpin."

"Everyone thinks I killed those cops," Nightbird interjects. "I had to try and clear my name."

His breathing deepens. "Not on your own."

Up until today Nightbird had been the rational one, the voice of reason, the man with a plan where he preferred more improvisation. That's what made them a good team, that's what he destroyed that one night in the alley, and after everything that's happened in both of his lives it's his biggest regret. He doesn't _need_ to be alone. Not with Nightbird by his side.

Nightbird faces him again. "I never took you for a coward."

If he didn't know what Nightbird had gone through today he might hazard being insulted, but he could stand to be the bigger man today. "You're right. I am a coward," he says, something crucial unfurling inside him he's never allowed to surface. "A coward who went after Fisk because someone I cared about got killed. I was in way over my head and nearly paid the price."

It's remarkable how easily it spills out.

Nightbird stills. "He went after someone you know?"

A helicopter sounds in the distance, but they're safe for now.

"Before I was–_The Flash_." He throws his hands up. "People like Fisk are the reason why people like us do what we do. Why we–"

Why they give up on real relationships, why they alienate the people around them, why he lied to his mom and his friends, why he hides inside the hood, why he truly never opened up to Blaine. It wasn't to protect him. He meant for his lies to protect himself, from being compromised, from ever again having to feel like that small boy crying over his father's grave. If he protected himself from such pain, never allowed himself that same vulnerability, then maybe he'd be strong enough, maybe he could avenge his father. Maybe he could carry the weight of an entire world without buckling underneath the pressure.

Yet where has that stubbornness gotten him? His mother doesn't know him, no one truly does, not even Blaine, who'd gotten closer than anyone. There was Dottie, but he can't expect her to be a substitute for everyone he's pushed away.

"Why we don't let anyone close," Nightbird fills in the missing pieces, and he doesn't know Sebastian Smythe, doesn't know the CSI or the chemistry student, doesn't know the man behind the mask. But Nightbird understands him better than anyone.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay," he says, needing, _wanting at least_ one relationship where things don't need to be so hard. It could be nice to have a partner by his side, someone there for him when he needs him the most. "I shouldn't have gone off on you. I shouldn't have tried to–"

The searchlight from a chopper overhead catches Nightbird's eyes.

And his world turns upside down.

"–blind you."

Nightbird evades the light, his cape flies up and the darkness returns within seconds, but he stands welded to the rooftop.

Because he would recognize those eyes anywhere, his eyesight could be taken but he'd dream of those eyes, remember their exact hue and vibrancy, the shift in color depending on how the light hit them, if he were an artist he could draw them from memory even though no man-made color would ever suffice.

Nightbird's mask wasn't equipped with night vision.

_He could see in the dark._

Because he's photophobic.

He staggers back a few steps into the shadows, vaguely aware that Nightbird has escaped down a fire exit, his heart contorting into a rhythm he's completely unaccustomed to. He sinks down to the ground, the past three years cast in a new light, replaying before his eyes.

Could it be? Could it be that the boy living inside his heart has confused his lives from the start? All the nights Blaine showed up late, all the missed calls and poor excuses to get out of dinner or movie nights, the migraine Blaine suffered the same night he blinded Nightbird. _Sam's phone call today_. Every little happenstance that reminded him of Nightbird when he talked to Blaine and every little thing of Blaine he saw in Nightbird... how could he have been so blind?

Blaine was Nightbird.

Blaine, who was currently wanted by every police officer in the city, including his stepfather, and he'd let him slip his attention. Would Blaine go home now that he's played his last card? Would he actually lay low and hang up the cape for a while? There's only one way to be sure of anything; he can reach the apartment in seconds from here, maybe even beat Blaine there.

But instead of running, he walks, sticks to the shadows as he ducks in and out of alleys, uses shortcuts only he knows about, ever so steadily closing the distance between him and a boy who, for all intents and purposes, he doesn't seem to know at all. And yet, they shared something so few other people did, they were friends, they loved each other, and now he truly understands what it could mean to be with Blaine. There'd be no more lies, no need for excuses, all their secrets laid out in sequence.

Strangely, he's at a complete loss on how to proceed once he reaches Blaine's apartment. Does he knock on the door dressed like this and show him his face, hoping Blaine will fall into his arms no questions asked? Or should he make absolutely sure his eyes hadn't tried to fool him?

And maybe he's being a complete idiot, because he's pretty darn sure this wasn't some sort of twisted wish fulfillment he'd invented, but he climbs up the fire escape that leads to Blaine's floor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the truth before confronting Blaine. Because there's no going back anymore, tonight's the night he lets it all out, every little secret that's ever stood in their way, every sad excuse that's kept them apart. The distance has to be bridged. He thinks they owe themselves that, at least.

He peers in through one of the living room windows, but there's no sign of life, and considering Blaine's apparent ease moving through the dark it's hardly surprising the light are off. He eases one of the windows open and steps inside, his footsteps silent, picking up the distinct sound of water running; it's coming from the bathroom–the faucet screeches to a close, and shadows dart over the floorboards a few moments later.

He approaches the bedroom quietly, though if his heart had any say the entire building would be shaking down to its foundations. Once inside the doorway he almost trips over a bundle of fabric on the floor; his eyes catch on the scrunched up white circle on the back, a black bird imposed over it, and his shoulders let go of that tension he never notices until it's relieved.

It's true.

Nightbird was his Blaine.

He swallows hard, finally giving his eyes leave to find Blaine, and finds him in front of the window, dragging a towel down his face and through his wet curls, stripped of his Nightbird attire from the waist up, the moonlight revealing dark patches on his skin that can't be anything else but bruises. And his heart aches at more than just the thought that they've been denying themselves things while there was no need to, they've put themselves through this push-and-pull friendship that was always more, how could it not be. All this time they could've come clean, shared their secrets, helped each other carry the weight of whatever darkness that drove them to take up the burden of crime fighting.

Blaine stares solemnly out the window, more tired that he's ever seen him, a sadness pervading the air they're both breathing, and he should feel like an intruder, he shouldn't witness Blaine this vulnerable, he has no right to. But everything's been leading up to this, this moment, the two of them in an empty room, finally completely devastatingly naked.

Blaine reaches down for his belt, probably ready to get some sleep, and it's truly astounding how apt a setting they've chosen.

"Need any help with that?"

Blaine turns around lightning fast. "What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaims, retreating into a darker shadow cast into the room. "Did you follow me?"

He can't make Blaine out anymore, but takes off his night vision glasses, dropping them on top of Nightbird's cape.

"No," he says softly.

He meets with a short silence, Blaine processing his answer, and he'll give him all the time in the world. There's no more need to run, not now. They've reached the end of a long long road.

"What–what do you mean?" Blaine asks, his bare feet shuffling on the floorboards.

He takes a few steps into the room while Blaine takes on a more defensive position, until they're facing each other, Blaine in the shadows, he in a strip of moonlight falling in through the curtains, their separation shrinking, shriveling, any moment now.

"How did you _find me_?" Blaine insists, bracing himself in a fighting stance, ready to take action.

And he smiles, doubtful that Blaine can see it, but what else is there? He's with the boy he loves, the boy he trusts in so many ways, the boy he knows through and through.

"I should've just told you," he whispers, and when he negates the space between their bodies it's sudden and unplanned, he shoots forward, lit by a fire dimmed for too long. Blaine grabs his shoulders to fight back, but he pushes through, considering their height difference before claiming Blaine's lips where the moon meets the dark.

Blaine pushes him back, holding him at arm's length. "S-Sebastian?" he stutters, and he draws them both into the dark this time, tugging down his hood so Blaine can finally see, finally realize what this is all about, the depth of their connection.

"It's you," Blaine breathes.

He can't see a thing besides Blaine's outlines, but the touch reigns so much brighter, Blaine's fingers relaxing where they'd clutched at his suit.

"It's me, Bird B–"

Blaine finds his lips again and every layer falls away between them, Blaine pulls him closer and winds his arms around his neck and it's like their first and last and every other kiss in between, hopeful and soft and loving while being desperate and hard and spiteful all at the same time. They tumble backwards onto the bed and Blaine winces as his bruised ribs protest.

"I'm sorry," he breathes in between kisses, "I'm sorry," kisses short and long, their breathing erratic as they try to reach as much of each other as they possibly can, scratch and caress and claw and push. He struggles out of his polyester vest, tossing it to the floor alongside Blaine's Nightbird costume, and Blaine's fingers dig into his skin.

He presses his forehead to Blaine's. "Can you really see me?"

Blaine wires his fingers through his hair. "Clear as day," he whispers.

He captures Blaine's lips and kisses him deep, and Blaine's moans beneath him, however much he feels his body straining against the pain. He pulls back–this is enough for now, they have so much more to talk about, their biggest obstacle has been conquered, now it's time to slowly tend to the smaller ones.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asks.

"Nothing." He lies down next to Blaine, carefully drawing a hand down his chest, backlit by the moonlight so Blaine can see him, and he can make out Blaine. "We have a lot to talk about."

Blaine steals a soft kiss. "Not tonight," he whispers.

"No." He drowns in Blaine's eyes. "Not tonight."

They share one last kiss before they both take off the rest of their costumes and get into bed, where Blaine lies down in his arms, every excuse forgiven and forgotten, their minds assured with the promise of so much more to come. There's nothing else standing in their way.

"And Sebastian?"

"Hmm?" he hums to Blaine's shoulder.

"It's Nightbird."

He laughs and kisses Blaine's shoulder, thinking yes, maybe it's time he starts calling him by his proper name.

* * *

**THE END**

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**if you can, please let me know what you think?**


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